


I'm Not Going to Let You Go Down (With the Ship)

by tryslora



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Human, Bullying, Community: tw_heat_wave, Fishing, M/M, Major Character Injury, Storms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 20:29:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles just wants to get through his greenhorn crab fishing season on the Spark alive, and prove to his dad that he has great potential to become his second in command. He thinks it’s going to be easy, until fist fights, old enemies, new friends, and the unexpected appearance of a very hot dude complicate things. A lot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Not Going to Let You Go Down (With the Ship)

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings (Highlight to view):** *Complete AU. Injuries and slight maiming. Bullying. Storm violence. Egregious ignorance of Dutch Harbor and the places around it (and therefore making shit up to make the story work).*  
>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own Teen Wolf, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. No copyright infringement is intended.  
>  **Author's Notes:** I blame this story on a song by the band Enter the Haggis, mashed up with my husband’s addiction to Deadliest Catch. Once I got the idea in my head, I couldn’t stop until it all spilled out. Thank you to M, who puts up with so many words from me, and to J for offering help, and to W for being kind when I was hunting someone who might know a little something about Deadliest Catch. There are some more notes at the end of the fic on AO3 regarding the specifics of the AU.  
> 

“Greenhorns!” Jackson’s voice snaps, and Stiles winces, shoulders going stiff. He’s been waiting years for his dad to let him on the boat, and this… this is the only drawback to the entire plan.

Scott doesn’t know enough to be wary, turning with a wide grin. “Yeah?” He’s excited to be there, his duffle over his shoulder and bulging slightly with everything he’s brought. “Don’t worry, I’ve grown up around here. I know everything about crab fishing. I’m not going to get in the way.”

“Right, because greenhorns are always so useful.”

When Stiles looks over, Danny and Jackson are standing shoulder to shoulder. Danny’s not a bad dude—Stiles would like him more if he weren’t so completely tight with Jackson, actually. But Jackson’s a first class dick, and seems to have forgotten that just last year he and Danny were greenhorns, too.

In fact, Stiles is more than aware that it’s not the best situation his dad’s in, taking the Spark out with two greenhorns, two guys with only a year experience, and, well, Finstock. Admittedly, Finstock is an old school chum of his dad’s, and they’ve been on this boat together for the last decade or more, but he’s still… Finstock. He’s a kind of special dude.

“ _Bilinski!_ ” Finstock’s voice rises above the sound of the motor starting up. “Get your ass in gear and get your shit stowed. I need you and McCall helping out. Anything Whittemore says, you do. Got it?”

Jackson grins and Stiles doesn’t like the look of it. “Got it?” Jackson repeats.

“Sure, yeah, anything you say.” Scott bobs his head in a quick nod, like a puppy expecting praise.

Stiles isn’t so quick to agree. He flashes a look at the cockpit, where he can just barely make out his dad getting ready to take them out. They aren’t the only ship heading out from Dutch Harbor right now, and he’s going to be busy for a while. Stiles can catch up with him later, maybe start learning the ropes to assist him. For now, he finally nods at Jackson, then grabs Scott and pulls him along as they go into the tiny sleeping space.

“We each get a stow space, and don’t let yourself overflow or Jackson will be a complete bitch about it.” Stiles keeps his voice low as he talks. “Jackson may talk a lot, but remember, he’s not much better than you out here. He and Danny survived one season out on the water, but they were greenhorns just last year. The only ones out here with any experience are Finstock and my dad, and you might have noticed that Finstock’s not altogether with it sometimes.”

“I thought you said he knew your dad since high school?” Scott carefully unloads his things, shoving when he starts to run out of space. “Doesn’t he know your name?”

“That’s what I meant.” Stiles is more careful, rolling each item tightly before sliding it into place, making sure there’s room for all his clothes as well as the two books he brought (not that there will be any time for reading). It’s a no electronics zone, and not exactly an ADHD friendly zone either. He makes sure his Adderall is in its watertight container, just in case, and he tucks a few pills into a purple bullet case that goes in his pocket. He needs focus out here, and dad has made it perfectly clear that if he can’t keep that focus, he’ll be dumped after the first season.

For once, Stiles just wants to make his dad proud. Not that his dad’s not proud of who he’s become, but Stiles knows that his dad would like someone to follow in his footsteps. Someone to take over the Spark when he has to retire. Which won’t be for a really long time, but it’s still on Stiles’s mind.

“He knows I’m a Stilinski, he even remembers I’m Dad’s son, and he still does that.” Stiles sits back to watch as Scott is still trying to find, or somehow make, space for everything. “Finstock has his own unique way of looking at the world, so get ready to translate. Definitely don’t take anything he says literally.”

“I wouldn’t!” Scott protests.

Stiles has to laugh. “Oh yes, you would. Remember last year when you—”

“We swore we weren’t going to talk about that again.” Scott goes pink to the tips of his ears. “It was one time, and yes, maybe it was a funny misunderstanding, but…” He shrugs, hands spread, smile rueful. “I’ll be better here, I promise. I have to pay attention, do everything I’m told, not fumble anything, and not go overboard. That’s pretty much it, right?”

“And be ready to not sleep for days at a time, and get hurt and have every bone in your body ache.” Stiles may not have been on the boat yet during the season, but he’s heard plenty about it when his dad comes back in, and he’s seen how fast it’s aged his dad since he started fishing twelve years ago. “It’s brutal out here, but I’m glad you’re here with me.”

Scott beams at him, the smile widening when Stiles nudges his shoulder. “Wouldn’t be anywhere else. We’ve been talking about it for years.”

They’ve been friends forever, ever since John Stilinski went looking for someone to help him out and take care of his six year old son while he went out for his first season of fishing. With no mom back in California, Stiles had been packed up to go with his dad to Alaska and found himself living with Melissa McCall and her son. He and Scott became immediate friends, and Stiles had been thrilled when his dad finally decided to leave California for good and relocate to Alaska so he could hang out with Scott year round.

“I can’t fit this in my space, can you get it into yours?” Scott holds out a picture frame to Stiles.

It’s thin and flat and fitting it isn’t the problem—Stiles is a master at making things work. The problem is who’s in the picture. “Dude. What is this?”

Scott flushes slightly. “My new girlfriend. Allison. We just started dating.”

Stiles blinks. “For one, you don’t start dating someone right before crab season. You need your mind _here_ , dude, not back on shore with a girl. For two, she’s an _Argent_. Didn’t you know that?”

“Allison Argent.” Scott nods. “Right, I know. Why is that a problem?”

“Oh, _dude,_ haven’t you been listening to anything I’ve said? Boulon Argenté. The boat that stole my dad’s perfect spot last year.”

Scott blinks at him. “I thought that was just the name of the boat. Silver bullet, or something like that.”

“It’s their boat, it’s their name, it’s the whole damned family.” Stiles takes the photograph and tucks it carefully into his own space because even if it’s Allison Argent, it’s still important to Scott, and Scott’s still his best friend, so he’ll take care of it. “I heard her aunt went completely stalker on some guy who was up over the summer, and he decided not to buy a boat after all. Which… isn’t necessarily bad since we don’t need more competition. But still—psycho _stalker_ , dude. Be careful. That family is all a little unhinged. I don’t think dad and Chris Argent have had civil words in forever, and Gerard Argent is even worse. Dude’s ancient and he won’t stop sailing.”

Scott’s nodding like he’s taking it all in, and Stiles is sure he is, right up until the point that a ridiculously twitterpated smile slips back into his expression. “I think you’re wrong about Allison,” he says. “She’s sweet. She’s not going to become some kind of stalker. And even if she does…” The smile grows. “I wouldn’t mind it. I’d like it if she wanted to stalk me.”

Stiles sighs. “You guys had sex, didn’t you?”

The smile quirks into a grin. “Yeah, we did.”

And that’s that, then. Scott’s kind of like an intelligent puppy, and he’s been waiting forever for just the right girl to imprint on. Stiles has the feeling that no matter what Allison does, even if she sticks her hand into his chest and yanks out his dripping heart, Scott will be loyal to her forever. Which means Stiles had better have a talk with her when they get back to shore. “Well, for now, out of sight is out of mind, okay?” He closes his things away, effectively hiding Allison from view. “And don’t tell anyone else you’re dating an Argent. They won’t get it.”

“Hey!” Jackson’s voice is sharp and carries well. “Greenhorns! Get your asses on deck before Finstock blows a gasket. We’re pulling out.”

Stiles tosses one of the slickers at Scott before shrugging into his own. “We’ll be up in a minute, asswipe!” he yells back. It’s time for the king crab season to begin.

#

It’s all hands on deck while they pull out from the dock, as well as for the first several hours so Stiles and Scott can be taught what they’re going to need to know before they reach the right spot. Being on the Bering Sea is a lot of hurry up and wait, and now they’re finally in the wait period. Stiles takes advantage of the brief downtime to climb into the cockpit. “Hey, Dad.”

“Hey, son.” John Stilinski’s attention is on the charts and the water, and Stiles knows that deciding exactly where to go is a complicated equation in his father’s mind that he still doesn’t full understand. But he wants to. His dad may have come to the Bering Sea late, but this has been most of Stiles’s life growing up, and he wants to take over someday. He might as well start learning on his first trip. “You and Scott doing all right down there? I’m still not sure you’re in the best place. Maybe you should’ve spent your greenhorn year on another ship.”

“One where you didn’t have to see me fuck up?” Stiles drops onto the stool and starts twisting it side to side. “I’m not going to fuck up like that, Dad. I already know most of what you have to teach greenhorns, like not getting tangled in the ropes and making sure bait’s always fresh, and how to measure the crab. I bet I’ll be able to handle the winch better than Finstock before this season’s over.”

Dad snorts. “Son, I think anyone can handle the winch better than Finstock, but no one’s better at running my crew.”

“He called me Bilinski again.”

“It’s a term of endearment.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “It continues to not endear me to him. I know he’s been your best friend forever, but do you think he could manage to remember I’m your son and therefore share the same name?” It’s not really a sore point. Well, not entirely. But it does bother him when it happens time after time, at least a little bit. “So, have you decided where we’re going?”

John nods. “Spent the last week going over charts with Danny, and we’re going to try someplace new. Right up here.” He taps the line on the map. “It’s a bit out of the way, but we’re figuring it hasn’t been fished out. Some good depth there, and no one else tends to want to go that far out.” 

Stiles hears the unheard words that it ought to be far away from the Argents, too. After last year, they don’t want to get tangled up in that mess again. “The Argents usually go over here, right?” He touches the spot on the charts which is near their old favorite grounds. He’s not going to say anything about Dad talking to Danny about the charts. He’s _not_. “So. You and Danny figured it out?” Or maybe he is.

Dad gives him a look. “Don’t start, son. Danny’s got a good head on his shoulders, and he’s got a year’s experience under his belt, which is more than you do. You’ll be a good fisherman when you get there, but you need to learn focus, and he’s already got that.”

“And I’ve been reading charts for _years_ , Dad. You know I want to do this someday. This is going to be _my_ boat.” Stiles throws his hands wide, then catches the charts he knocks off the table before they can scatter and hit the ground. He arranges them carefully on the table again. “I can do it.”

“In a few years, you can start thinking about it, but not yet.” Dad turns back to his charts, making meticulous notes. “I know you know your stuff, Stiles, but this isn’t a video game. It’s not just about the knowledge, it’s about the people, not to mention thinking on your feet without missing any details. You can’t be distracted out here. People die that way.”

“No one’s going to die on my watch,” Stiles mutters. He pulls the log books over and notes Danny’s careful handwriting in the official log for the boat. Great. Danny’s keeping logs and Stiles is barely allowed in the cockpit.

He opens the unofficial log—his dad’s journal for the boat—and flips to the first page. There are notes about the boats going out this season, which is what interests Stiles. He passes by most of them—they are the usual suspects and while they are sort of friendly, they are still sort of rivals, but they are also no one he really worries about. Boulon Argenté is on the list, still captained by Gerard Argent with Chris Argent on board. They have their usual crew with no greenhorns. Lucky crew, not to have any greenhorns. They’re set up for a good season, and Stiles bets they’ll be heading right back to the spot they stole from the Spark last year.

The one name that sticks out to Stiles is Moonlight Madness. It’s a brand new boat, captained by… “Laura Hale? Dad, is the Moonlight Madness seriously captained by a woman?”

“Don’t be sexist, Stiles.”

He shakes his head, protesting. “I’m not. It’s just… I’ve never seen a woman out crabbing. Ever. Are these guys new? You don’t even have her roster. Oh, hey… is this the group Kate Argent stalked last summer?”

Dad reaches over to take the book from Stiles’s hands, closing it. “That was three summers ago, and I wouldn’t know. This is an extended family out of California that’s come up for their first season.”

“Is it an entire boat full of greenhorns?” Stiles figures they have to have someone experienced for their crew, but he doesn’t know the name _Hale_ and he can’t imagine anyone experienced listening to a clueless captain. “It’s going to be a mess. We should keep an ear out for them on the radio and make sure they’re okay.”

“They’re going to be fine, and they’re not your responsibility.”

“You didn’t just say that.” Stiles just looks at his dad. “Out here, we stick together. You’ve said it. You’ve said you’d even rescue Gerard Argent if his boat was going under and that was _after_ he dicked you over last year and made you spend almost an extra week at sea.”

“If they need our help, we’ll help,” Dad replies mildly. “But I’m not going to go out of my way to shadow a new boat when I’ve got two greenhorns of my own causing enough trouble. How are you and Scott doing so far?”

As changes of subject go, it isn’t even subtle. Stiles knows when he’s being shut down, so he goes with it. He’ll figure out more about the Hales later on, and maybe he’ll even send out a hail (hah, hail the Hales) to let them know they can count on the Spark if they need anything.

Well, anything emergency related. Best fishing spot? That he’ll keep secret. Friends are one thing, but getting in, getting crab, and getting home quickly is still a priority. No one wants to be at sea any longer than they have to be. It’s too risky, to both the people and the profit.

So he just smiles and shrugs. “It’s not so bad. I mean, I’ve seen most of it before. I know all about fresh bait, and the winch, and getting out of the way. Scott’s absorbing it all and he’s going to be fine, and Jackson’s going to be an asshole because he just _is_ and we’ll all be set. We’re going to be good for your crew, don’t worry. Best greenhorns you’ve ever had.”

“They all say that, right before they fuck up,” Dad says dryly.

“ _They_ weren’t _me_ ,” Stiles points out. “You should be glad I’m here. Father and son on the Bering Sea, like Chris and Gerard Argent, only sane and with much less asshattery. We’re going to be legend, Dad.”

“Just remember, most folks are only legends after they’re dead.”

As statements go, that’s a sobering one, Stiles has to admit, particularly out here. They don’t call it one of the deadliest occupations for nothing.

He watches his dad turn his attention back to the sea, and he knows the conversation is over. He’s not sure when he’ll actually get to come back up here in a quiet moment like this one. There may not be any other rest times before they are back in port, and it may be that they aren’t father and son again for days or weeks—they’ll be captain and greenhorn and in a way, that makes Stiles’s heart ache.

Stiles puts his arms around him from behind and hugs him quickly, one hard squeeze before he steps away. “I love you, Dad,” he tells him. “Even when you’re bitching me out, I’ll still love you. Let’s go catch some crab.”

So maybe it’s a bit sappy, but doesn’t everyone deserve a moment like that? Stiles ducks out of the cockpit and hurries back to the deck. Water’s washing over the edge, the seas are rough, and everyone’s wet and still full of hopeful energy. It’s not a bad start to the trip.

#

Waiting to get to their spot is hell, but it’s the boring sort of hell. The waiting around sort of hell that involves playing cards, fixing things that are already fixed, and repeating every damned thing Jackson and Danny teach them (and trying not to repeat the things that come out of Finstock’s mouth because most of them don’t make sense). By the time they get to where they’re going, Stiles is ready for some excitement.

Twenty minutes later, he’s ready to go back to being bored.

He remembers one night last spring when he was out at a club (yes, even Alaska has the occasional gay club if you don’t mind driving a very long, long way) and he happened to bump into Danny there and he was impressed by his chest. It is a chest worth being impressed by, broad and thick with muscle, and Stiles appreciated the view greatly. But he didn’t think of it as _working_ muscle. Now? Now he realizes where that physique came from and he laments his own lack of stature.

Even Finstock is making this look easy, and really, Stiles doesn’t want to think too hard about what muscles _he_ might be hiding. It’s _Finstock_.

They haven’t been working long but Stiles already aches from fighting against the tilt and sway of the ship, from slipping on the watery deck, and from hoisting things that are heavier than anything he’s ever hoisted before. Danny’s on the winch while Finstock directs traffic and Stiles does his damnedest to mentally translate nonsense into instructions. Scott is handling bait and making sure each pot is properly stocked before Danny sets the winch and lifts it out so it drops into the sea and sinks down, leaving only the buoy bobbing in its wake.

After several hours, Stiles realizes that there is a routine to this, even as chaotic as it seems. They have several strings to put over the side, and they can’t stop until everything’s done, then they will reverse it all and come back around to pull them up.

He tries to imagine throwing out the hook to catch the buoy and his arms hurt just thinking about it.

He steps off to the side and takes a moment to breathe. He spots Scott leaning against the wall, head tipped back and inhaler in hand, taking a rough huff and holding it in. His gaze narrows, worried about his best friend and his asthma. Stiles raises one hand, taking a step out onto the deck as he hears Finstock belt out, “ _Bilinski!_ ”

Stiles whirls around, the frustration of the last few hours rising up as he yells, “My _name_ is _Stilinsk—_ ”

There is no time to finish the name before he falls backwards, arms windmilling to take him out of the way of the pot swinging. His hand strikes something and pain lances through it; he cries out in surprise before he lands on his ass in a puddle, jarred from the impact. Stiles can’t breathe at first, sound ringing in his ears, the world forced away in the surge of adrenalin. Then it all rushes back as Scott lands on his knees next to him, yelling his name.

Stiles looks at him blearily. “I’m okay.”

“No, you’re not.” Danny has his hand held loosely, fingers spread, and Stiles realizes that he’s right… he’s _not_ okay and oh, dear God, that’s a lot of blood. “We need to go in and take a look at this and get it wrapped. You don’t want to get an infection out here.”

“I’ve had all my shots.” Tetanus, of course, updated right before he got on the boat. Stiles knows the rules, and he knows why they _are_ rules, but suddenly he’s remembering them all as he looks at the blood flowing over his hand. “Hands bleed a lot. Hands and faces.”

“Sure they do, but until we get it washed, we don’t know how bad it is.”

“C’mon, get up.” Scott is pale but wedges an arm under Stiles to help him up. “Go with Danny. I’ll be fine out here.”

Stiles remembers what distracted him in the first place. “Can you breathe?”

Scott’s smile is wide and fond. “I’m fine, Stiles. That’s why I carry an inhaler. Don’t worry about me, okay?”

“Don’t worry about Scott,” Danny repeats as he nudges Stiles towards the door leading inside. Behind them, Stiles can hear Jackson ranting to Finstock about what an _idiot_ Stiles is. He’s sure Danny can hear it too, and he doesn’t know whether to thank him for not chiming in, or be angry that he’s not apologizing for Jackson’s assholish tendencies.

“I don’t know why you’re friends with him,” Stiles mutters.

“We grew up together.” Danny points at the bench in the kitchenette and Stiles sits, his hand resting on top of the table.

In better light, he can now see the gash that runs across the back of his hand, thick with blood. It’s going to hurt, and it’s going to need to be wrapped, and as soon as Danny starts to irrigate it using a squeeze bottle, he bites back a squeak. 

“Well, he’s an asshole.” Stiles talks to mask the pain and distract himself. “If he’s an asshole to you—”

“He’s not.” Danny’s tone is calm. “He’s one of the few guys in my school who wasn’t an asshole to me when we were teenagers, and he made damn sure everyone else in the school knew it was okay that I was gay and out. Jackson was popular and if he didn’t care, then no one else cared, and I had a great life. Do you think that maybe you should’ve been paying attention to where the pot was going, rather than daydreaming on deck?”

“I wasn’t daydreaming!” Stiles jerks his hand away, forcing himself to lay it flat for Danny to start work again. “I was catching my breath and I saw Scott with his inhaler—”

“Which is none of your business,” Danny points out. “Stiles, if you want to fish crab, you need to learn to focus. Your dad warned me that you might—”

“What?” Stiles goes still. “My dad said _what_?”

Danny gives him a level look. “Your dad told me you have ADHD and that you’re on medication for it. Finstock knows, I assume, since he’s told me stories about when Bilinski was a baby. Jackson doesn’t know, or if he does, it’s not because I’ve told him. He also told me that Scott has asthma, which is obvious to everyone now. It’s not a question of privacy, Stiles, it’s about safety. He’s training me to be a captain on my own someday.”

“I noticed.” Stiles can’t keep the bleak note out of his voice. Worse yet, the room is spinning slightly, and while he doesn’t think he’s lost that much blood, maybe it’s the rush of coming down from the adrenalin mixing with the Adderall in his system. Whatever it is, it’s unpleasant. “It might have occurred to you that this will be _my_ boat someday. _Mine_. He’s my dad, this is my family, it’s a Stilinski thing. Not a Bilinski thing or a Maheawhatsit thing. Stilinski. Which means I’m the one he should be teaching.”

“And you’re a greenhorn.”

Stiles has to give Danny credit—he doesn’t look insulted by Stiles chewing him out. He works patiently over Stiles’s hand, spreading the edges of the wound slightly and rubbing in antiseptic. “I’m going to need to put two or three stitches into this,” Danny says.

“You’re a doctor too?” Stiles rolls his eyes. “Medic. Soon to be captain. Hottest abs I’ve ever seen on the floor of a dance club.” He pauses when Danny’s eyebrow goes up. “Right, pretend I didn’t say that last bit, and I have _never_ seen you in a club, okay? But seriously. Doctor?”

“First aid, Stiles. I took it before my first season out, just in case. Some of us like to be prepared. You’ll have to learn in order to get your captain’s license someday.”

“I learned everything I could about life out here and how to fish and I’ve been reading charts since I was _seven_ ,” Stiles shoots back. “I’m prepared. Just differently.”

Danny huffs a sigh. “I know. Just, don’t try to do everything at once. It’s tough out here, and I don’t feel like I know everything yet and this is my second season out. You might think you’re ready, but you’re not, so give yourself a chance and try not to fuck up worse than this.”

Stiles looks away as Danny dabs on a numbing cream and tugs three careful stitches through the deepest part of the wound, using butterfly bandages on the rest. He only looks back when Danny is wrapping it, and reminding him to use gloves and keep it as dry as he can. Stiles has to laugh at that.

“Everything’s wet on this boat.” He shakes his head. “I’ll do my best.”

He can hear the other guys coming in, stomping around and shedding gear. There’s laughter and some good natured teasing, and Stiles gets the impression Scott’s checking out some fresh bruises. When he walks in, only Scott and Jackson are there, both half dressed. Scott pulls on a fresh shirt, but Jackson doesn’t bother. 

“Are you okay?” Scott gives Stiles a worried look. “We got everything else in the water. Danny, Finstock said to join him and Captain Stilinski in the cockpit.”

Jackson waits until Danny ducks out before he adds his own comment. “Try not to get distracted again, asswipe,” he sneers. “If you go overboard, I’m not jumping in after you.”

“Yes, you are,” Stiles says, keeping his voice even. “That’s what being on the same boat is about. I’d even save your ass if it went into the water. We’re loyal to our crew. To each other. That’s how we stay alive out here.” He smiles slightly at Scott, who is bouncing just a bit. “Three stitches, and it’s going to scar pretty badly. I’ll have a story to tell, which hopefully won’t get any more exciting than it already is.”

“Keep up the good work like today, and we’ll all have new scars,” Jackson says dryly. He twists and Stiles sees a long thin line that goes across his shoulder blade, cutting down his back, silvered and healed. He could ask. He could ask what _stupid_ thing Jackson did last year that earned him that scar, but he’s not going to. Stiles doesn’t want to get his head bitten off right now, not when his hand is starting to throb as the anesthetic wears off.

“Fuck off,” he says, and yanks open his storage space, rummaging through for a clean, dry shirt for himself. When he finds it, he strips the old one off and shrugs into the new.

A soft hiss from Scott alerts him to the fact that something’s wrong. Stiles yanks the shirt down quickly and looks at Jackson, who has the picture frame in his hand. Stiles’s gaze narrows and he speaks before thinking. “That’s mine.” He makes a grab for the frame, but Jackson pulls it back out of the way.

The answering smile is sharp and nasty. “Oh, is it? I take it you’re into girls this week, Stilinski? I heard you were trolling the gay clubs last spring. What’s it like, swinging both ways?”

Stiles clenches his jaw. He does not want to go into this now, not any of this. Scott’s eyes are puppy-wide, silently begging Stiles to save the picture, so Stiles focuses on that. “It’s _mine_ ,” he repeats, and he launches himself at Jackson.

He manages to land one good punch on Jackson’s jaw while he grabs for the frame, then he loses track of everything. For one, he punches with his damaged hand, and that _hurts_. For another, Jackson punches back, clipping his jaw and snapping his head back. Then he is on the bed, on top of Jackson, holding him down while Scott manages to get the frame free of his hand. The moment of peace doesn’t last long, but Stiles doesn’t care when Jackson flips him, slamming him onto the floor. Scott has the picture, and that’s what Stiles was aiming for.

“All you had to do was give it back,” Stiles manages to say, just as Danny, Finstock, and his dad all come running in.

Danny hauls Jackson off of him, and Stiles stands up slowly, brushing himself off and retying the bandage where he can see blood seeping through. There’s a smear of his blood on Jackson’s cheek, and Stiles manages to catch himself before helpfully pointing out that he’s clean, so there’s nothing to worry about there.

“Care to explain?” Dad crosses his arms and blocks the door, seeming as big as Stiles remembers him being ten years ago when Stiles was still very small.

They trip over each other with words, until Dad silences them all and tells Scott to speak. In the end, Stiles can see that disappointed look in his father’s eyes. “Stiles, you’ve been on this boat…” He shakes his head. “We’ve barely started, and we’ve got a lot further to go with a lot less sleep than you’ve got now. I need you to get along. Keep your tempers to yourselves, and keep your _fists_ to yourselves.”

“Keep out of my stuff,” Stiles snaps, glaring when Jackson snarls at him.

“Everyone stays out of everyone else’s stuff unless there’s an emergency,” the captain tells them firmly. “Now apologize.”

Jackson sticks out his hand. “I’m sorry I questioned your sexuality.”

Not a conversation Stiles wants to encourage, so he pastes on a smile and grasps Jackson’s hand. “I’m sorry you’re such a douche.” He squeezes hard, both of them trying to outdo the other.

“Not quite what I meant, but it’ll have to do.” His dad turns and leaves, Finstock trailing behind, already talking.

Stiles wrenches his hand, still bleeding, away from Jackson. “Leave my shit alone,” he says sharply.

“Don’t start again.” Danny manages to get between them, settling on one of the racks. “There’s no room for this on the boat.”

“Ask him why he’s got a picture of Allison Argent in his things.” Jackson jabs a finger at Stiles. “Ask him why he’s selling us out to the _Argents_.”

“It’s not like that.” Stiles could explain. He could make this all go away somehow, but that would leave Scott taking the heat, and Stiles doesn’t want to do that to his best friend. The picture is tucked away now, Stiles’s stash is closed, and he just wants to let it go. “I haven’t sold anyone out, Jackson. You know I wouldn’t do that to my own dad.”

Jackson snorts. “I think it’s a good idea your dad doesn’t trust you and spent all that time with Danny making plans. Who knows what you would’ve told your _girlfriend_.”

Stiles can’t handle it any more. If Jackson keeps this up, Stiles is going to throw another punch, and God only knows what Dad will do then. “I’m going up on deck.”

“Keep your hand dry!” Danny calls after him.

Sure, yeah, right now Stiles gets the feeling that one cut is the least of his worries. Living with an asshole? It’s going to be a big problem, and it’ll only get worse.

#

Stiles knows he needs to sleep, but he can’t. It’s a quiet moment—they’re not moving much right now, and the seas are calm—but the racks are uncomfortable and Stiles’s hand aches. The bleeding finally stopped a few hours ago, but the throbbing of his blood distracts him. He can’t put it under his pillow, he can’t lay it on the bed next to him, he can’t let it hang over the side… there is no position where it doesn’t ache. 

They’ve all been sent below to catch a few hours rest while his dad maneuvers the boat into position for them to start pulling up the pots. It’s something Stiles could actually do, even though he knows his dad won’t let him, but maybe he can at least convince his dad to get a little snooze in. He makes his way onto deck and pauses there, chilled in the cold, clear night.

He can see forever under the full moon, and he leans on the rail, looking out at the deceptive peace. He can appreciate the Bering Sea, in this brief time when it’s not trying to kill him. It laps at the side of the boat, teasing little licks that seem to be small reminders that it could eat the boat up if they’re not careful. But it won’t, not yet; the sea is biding its time.

It’s a chilling, sobering thought, but Stiles has to remember it. This sea is not his friend. It has been in his life a long, long time, but it will never be a friend. It has taken more lives than he cares to count, people who became friends and then were swallowed whole when the sea became angry. Every season boats may be lost… people may be lost. He can never forget that.

He gazes across the distance, brow furrowing when he spots a black blot on the horizon. He tilts his head, trying to get a better view. Is that a boat?

It’s a boat.

Fishing in the same damn waters as they are.

 _Fuck_.

He climbs into the cockpit quickly. “Dad! I think the Argents followed you.” One hand waves in the rough direction of the intruder, the other waving in front of his father’s face, trying to get his tired attention.

Dad glances over, then shakes his head. “It’s not the Argents, Stiles, don’t worry. It’s the Moonlight Madness. The Hale boat. I already know they’re here, and they’re not interfering with any of our lines.”

Stiles pulls up short. “You know they’re here? Because… you told them to come here?” It’s a jump in logic, but from his dad’s expression, he’s right. “You… _what_? What happened to _we’re not responsible for them_? Since when do we give away our spot?”

“This isn’t your decision, Stiles.” Dad stands up, pushing his hand into his hair. “The Hale lines are nowhere near ours, and we won’t interfere with each other. Plenty of water, and plenty of crab, so leave it be.”

He doesn’t want to leave it be. But it’s not the time to push, not when Dad looks like he might want to fall over. Stiles sighs heavily, echoing that same push of his hand through his hair. “Go get some rest, Dad. We’re on track, right? There’s nothing I can fuck up if I just sit up here and keep guard, right?”

Dad hesitates. “Don’t touch the charts.”

“Won’t touch the charts or the official log,” Stiles promises, hands wide. “I’ll just watch and make sure everything’s fine, keep us on track, and if anything comes up, I’ll wake you or Finstock. Promise. Scout’s honor.” He raises two fingers, frowns, tries three fingers. He has absolutely no idea what it’s really supposed to be, but it seems like a good faith gesture.

“You were never a boy scout,” Dad points out. “But fine. Just… stay out of trouble.”

“How much trouble could I get into in one tiny room?”

Dad smiles ruefully. “I know you, Stiles, so I’m not going to answer that question. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

Stiles watches out the window as his dad climbs down and disappears. He waits to make sure no one else climbs up before he goes to the radio and flicks the switch. He doesn’t need to touch the _official_ log to get the information he needs; Dad keeps all the contact information in his journal. The entry for the Moonlight Madness is still slim, just the name of the boat, the contact information, and Laura Hale on the roster, but Stiles doesn’t let that stop him. He calls out over the radio and waits.

“Well hello there, Spark, what brings you to life right now?” There’s an edge of laughter in the voice that responds, entirely without protocol. “Usually you wait until boss lady’s up and around.”

“Laura Hale?” Stiles asks, and a laugh drifts back.

“Definitely not. Erica here. And you don’t sound like the good captain, so who’ve I got the pleasure of talking to?”

“Stiles.” He’s trying to work through this, the idea that there are _two_ women out crab fishing. Doing one of the deadliest, hardest jobs on earth, and there are _girls_ involved.

Right. Don’t be sexist. If they’re on that boat, they’re obviously good at what they do.

Wait.

“Is your entire crew _female_?”

She laughs again. “Nope, just our captain and me. The rest are all very definitely guys. But don’t worry, Laura and I, we hold our own here. So tell me, _Stiles_ , why are you calling across? Social? Business? Bored out of your mind?”

“Can’t sleep.” He answers honestly. “I’m watching the helm so my dad can get a few hours belowdecks, and my hand hurts.” He flexes it to make sure he can, watching the play of the bandage over his hand. The blood is dried and the bandage sticks, and he’s a bit worried what it will look like when he unwraps it next after using that hand to punch Jackson. Not his brightest move; he can admit that now.

“Hurt already and we’re barely started?” He can hear the tsk-tsk in her voice. “Not bright, greenhorn Stilinski. Not bright at all.”

“Don’t you start calling me an idiot, too,” Stiles snaps. She may sound pleasant, but he’s tired and not in the mood for teasing. “I’ve got enough of that from our resident asshole.”

“At least it’s just your hand. Your dad won’t be happy if you’re hurt, Stiles.” Her tone turns serious. “And don’t be a snappish sourheart. We’ve got enough of that on this side.”

“I’m not sour.” But he is right now. He’s tired, and cranky, and pained, and… sour. He sighs. “Not normally. This is getting to me. I didn’t think it would. How the hell are you so cheerful? Aren’t you a greenhorn, too?”

“Up here, yeah, I guess we all are.” He hears movement and imagines her settling in more comfortably with the radio. “But we fish off the coast of California all summer. I’ve been on boats since I was thirteen, and I think Laura grew up on her dad’s boat. The only one we’ve got who’s a real greenhorn—completely unused to the fishing gig at all—is Isaac. Sweet kid, but knocking around into everything right now. The rest of us are irritated by the whole raincoat and frigid weather thing, but the rest is pretty familiar. Wet decks, heavy objects, sharp things. Fishing’s a hard life, but I love it. And this—this is a fucking adventure. I heard you grew up in it, too?”

“My dad talks about me? To _you_?”

“To Laura,” she admits. “He’s proud of you.”

“He doesn’t show it much right now.” Stiles picks at the cracked leather of the chair he’s sitting in. “Right now he seems to be thinking I’m an idiot right along with the rest of the crew. And he’s training Danny up to be a captain instead of me.”

“So. Plenty of time left for that. Get your sea legs first.”

“Don’t you start on me, too.” Maybe this calling the Hales idea was a mistake, because right now, Stiles isn’t exactly feeling any better. “What about your story? Why did you start fishing when you were thirteen?”

“I have epilepsy.”

Of all the things Stiles expects to hear, that never even makes it near the list. “You _what_? And you’re out _here_?”

“It’s under control. I couldn’t even be out here if I hadn’t been seizure free for at least the last six months.” He can imagine the shrug. “I’d say it doesn’t matter, but it does, so I won’t. I have to be careful, I have to take my meds, and I like to work most in the dark because the sun is more likely to trigger me out here than anything else, the way it flashes off the water. But it means I had a fucked up life when I was a teenager, and I needed a way to get outside my own head. I met Laura—she’s older than me—and she was like a big sister. She took me out on a smaller boat the first time, and I liked the peace of it. Even when it’s chaotic, I like the rhythm. It helps keep me even. She was my first best friend, and honestly, I’d do anything for her. When she told me she was thinking of coming up here, I couldn’t say no.”

“How old are you?” It’s not the question you ask a girl, but Stiles is curious. “I’m not trying to pick you up or anything, I’m just curious. Me, I’m nineteen. Jackson and Danny are twenty. We’re a pretty young crew, except for Finstock and my dad. The Argents run an older ship generally, with Gerard at the helm and most of the crew around Chris’s age. What about you guys?”

“We’re all between twenty and twenty-six,” Erica tells him. “Except for Peter—he’s probably close to your dad’s age, but seriously, he’s hot in ways you’d never expect a guy that old to be. Creepy weird sometimes, too; don’t let him get you in a dark room alone. That was the first thing Laura told me before going out on a ship with him, and Boyd swears she said it to him, too.”

“Erica, Laura, Peter, Boyd, Isaac,” Stiles reels off. He has a roster now, although he won’t write it into Dad’s book. That’d be a dead giveaway that he was here, and besides, he has a feeling Dad knows it already anyway if he’s been talking to them.

“And D—oh crap. Hi, Peter!” Erica’s voice shifts high and chirpy, a little playful and definitely different from the husky voice Stiles had just been conversing with. Then the sound clicks off and Stiles is left in the silence, alone.

He hunts around for some paper, not because it really matters but because writing things down will help him remember, and he carefully makes notes of everything he’s learned. It almost seems like his dad’s in some kind of alliance with the Moonlight Madness, and Stiles figures that means he should remember the details. Who knows when they might come in handy again later.

#

“Where were you?” Scott leans in close to talk quietly to Stiles while they gear up.

Stiles inspects his fresh bandage, moving his fingers experimentally. It’s a bit sore, and a bit swollen, but he hopes it’s also okay for working. He doesn’t really have a choice; everything takes both hands out here. He digs around in the cabinets and finds a pair of old rubber gloves and yanks one over the bandage. It’s awkward, but it will work for now.

“Cockpit,” he replies. “I went up to give Dad a break, and I ended up falling asleep because I didn’t feel like moving when Finstock came in. It was peaceful and a Jackson-free zone, which was nice.”

Scott scrunches his nose up. “About that. He went off on the Argents before you came down, and how you can’t be fucking one because you wouldn’t do that to your dad and how he’s going to hold that over you.” Scott blinks, and smiles slightly. “Thanks for taking the heat. He seems to think having a girlfriend is disloyal.”

“Not just any girlfriend, an _Argent_ girlfriend.” Stiles can’t figure out how to make it make sense to Scott. “Look, it’s just like… you’re Romeo and Juliet. Her family and your family can’t stand each other, and that’s how things work out here. So you’re star-crossed lovers and if you get distracted by her, it could be suicide on your part.”

Scott nods. “I get it, dude. I do. Focus while I’m on the boat, and I’ll think about Allison when we’re done. Don’t you think you’re being kind of hypocritical?”

Stiles blinks quickly. “What? How?”

“You went out this summer.” Scott jabs a finger at Stiles. “I know it, and obviously even Jackson knows about it. Why isn’t that a bad thing and I’m in trouble for falling in love?”

He gives Scott a thin smile. “Love. That’s why. This is your greenhorn season and you went out and lost your heart _and_ your virginity at the same time. There’s a complete difference between hooking up and falling for someone. Love’s distracting. Hooking up is just great fantasy material.” He claps Scott on the shoulder. “Let’s get out there.”

They’re pulling up the pots today, and Finstock directs them with wordy assignments and strange encouragement. Stiles starts out on bait but moves to measuring quickly when he fumbles and spills a bucket of bait on deck. He moves to the table, because it’s not hard to measure the crab to make sure they’re large enough to keep, then push them towards the hole into the storage tank.

It’s not hard at all, when there aren’t many crab coming up to begin with.

At first they think it’s just the first pot, which has only six. Finstock raises his fingers—three on each hand—to give the count to the captain to record in the log, then motions for Danny to hook the next pot. They winch it in, and Stiles starts grabbing for crab along with Jackson. The first three out of the pot are too small and he tosses them back over the side to grow bigger for next season. Four go into the tank, then two from the next pot. The fourth pot brings a bounty of ten, but that’s still not enough. With numbers like these, they’re going to be out here for far too long before they meet quota and go back in.

Stiles has a feeling he’ll want to kill someone by then. Probably Jackson.

Danny motions to Stiles after they finish the first string. “Want to learn how to throw the hook?”

“Fuck yes.”

It’s not easy, especially with his hand already on fire from being overused, but it turns out Stiles also happens to be very good at it. He develops a good swing with the hook that results in an easy lob out, hooking the buoy and tugging the pot in. He tosses the rope over the winch and signals for Danny to pull it up, and the pot swings into view. There are a few tense moments when the first pot swings wildly, but after that he and Danny fall into a rhythm that even Finstock can’t find fault with.

Stiles likes working with the hook and winch, because it’s a pattern but it’s not monotonous. He’s got enough shift and motion that he can focus on it without getting distracted, because something is always changing. He has to search out the buoys, aim, get out of the way. He likes it better than doing the bait or measuring the crab. Scott, on the other hand, is quick with the bait and good at getting the pots ready to go back over.

By the time the strings have all come in and gone out again, Stiles is exhausted. But his dad needs something to eat, and Stiles refuses to stop moving when his dad needs to be taken care of, so he climbs into the cockpit and sends him down to the galley to eat with the others.

Stiles has a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for himself, which will hold him until he can get down to eat something better. Being alone in the cockpit gives him a chance to fire up the radio and hail the Moonlight Madness again. “Hail, Hales,” he calls out, but no one answers.

He tries not to show how disappointed he is by that and goes to take a quick nap.

Later, Stiles is refreshed when everyone else is fading, and he shoos his father belowdecks for sleep while he takes over. Just for a few hours, while the boat isn’t going anywhere. This time when he calls out, Erica answers.

“I heard you called over earlier,” she says cheerily. “Laura says to tell you the radio’s not a toy to be used when you’re bored.”

“I wasn’t bored,” Stiles protests. “I was making my dad go get something to eat and it was too quiet up here.”

“I’m only in the cockpit at night, and Laura frowns on anything that could be considered frivolous.” Erica pauses. “No, strike that. Laura loves frivolous things, but not when we’re out on the boat. Out here, it’s all fish fish fish, or in this case, crab crab crab. Literally, if you know her brother. He’s the crabbiest person I know. I think we should use him for bait, and all the crab would just walk on in, looking for family.”

Stiles laughs, because that sounds like the least attractive person ever. “Sounds dull. I’ll trade you though, him for Jackson, because I think I’d rather have crabby than asshole. We can’t use Jackson as bait—no one would touch him. I can’t understand what his girlfriend sees in him.”

“At least he has a girlfriend.” Erica snorts softly. “Our Crabby McCrabberpants pushes them all away. In his defense, he dated this complete psycho bitch, so I can’t blame him completely. But still… I think he’d benefit from getting laid.”

They fall into an easy conversation, teasing back and forth. Stiles manages to learn that Erica’s boyfriend is on the boat—Boyd—and that their greenhorn is a shy thing that reminds him a little of Scott. He does his best to twist the conversation around to the Argents, and Erica deftly lets it slip away again without revealing anything. 

It becomes another pattern in his life, as they wait for the crab to take the bait and for the pots to fill. Days of maintenance on the boat, and evenings talking to Erica before he nods off and snoozes lightly. They bitch about the pots that aren’t filled, although Stiles swears that her numbers sound higher. He considers writing them down, but he can’t find anything to write on and he doubts she’s telling him everything. He’s not telling her everything after all.

It’s funny how much he looks forward to their talks. They help him stay even, giving him something to look forward to that he can focus on and let his mind wander without it wandering so far it gets him into trouble. It helps him ignore the pain in his hand as it heals, the heat across the back of his hand. It’s going to scar, and he’ll always have a reminder of this first trip out.

Most importantly, it gives him a place to escape to when Danny and Dad have the charts spread out in the mess, going over the possible routes, trying to decide where to move the boat to next. When they finish pulling up the pots the next time, Danny’s going to be the one choosing where they decide to put them down again.

Stiles feels left out, so he retreats and talks to Erica. And time passes.

#

“Last pot!” Stiles yells out. He flexes his hand and looks down at the battered blue glove that covers the bandage. It’s throbbing after working for about twenty hours straight pulling up the lines and getting next to nothing in every pot. All he has to do is get this last one out of the water, then he can go take a good look at it and see what’s going on. It hasn’t been healing right, and he knows it, but what’s he going to do about that out here?

He looks out at the buoy and judges the distance, readying the hook to throw. Something catches his eye, something bright in the distance, and he glances up to see the Moonlight Madness closer than it has been so far. At the rail he spots a woman with her hood thrown back from her slicker. Even from this distance, he can see the riot of blond hair she has barely pulled back, and the grin she gives him as she waves and puts one thumb up. He laughs, guessing _that_ has to be Erica, the sound cutting off sharply when Jackson shoulders him.

“Throw the hook, Stilinski,” Jackson snaps. “We’re going to pass the damned buoy if you don’t catch it soon. Last pot. Get it out of the water.”

Stiles manages to not hit Jackson with the hook—not even _on purpose_. It would have been completely accidental, Jackson wedging himself into that space while Stiles has the hook ready to throw. He fumbles it, almost dropping it, then shoves Jackson out of the way so he can get the hook tossed out over the water before it’s too late. He hooks the pot easily and is just putting the rope over the winch when Jackson shoves him in return.

“What the _fuck_?” Jackson yells. “You almost hit me with the fucking hook. You’re a danger on this boat, can’t even pay attention long enough to get one thing done.”

Stiles ducks out from under the winch, leaving it to Danny. He can’t ignore this insult, exhaustion tipping him past reason into fury as he pushes at Jackson. He throws the first punch, hooking his fist into Jackson’s jaw, but Jackson gives as good as he gets. Neither of them sees the pot come over the edge, Scott and Finstock struggling to get it stabilized while Jackson and Stiles roll across the wet deck, fighting furiously.

“Damn it!” Something grabs the back of Stiles’s slicker, pulling him across the deck as Danny wraps his arms around Jackson to immobilize him. Stiles is gratified to see a cut above Jackson’s left eye, blood dripping in a thin trail over his skin. He spots Scott standing off to the side, eyes wide and worried.

Stiles struggles, but he realizes that his father has him tight. “He started it!” he yells.

“Greenhorn’s an idiot who can’t stop flirting long enough to get the job done!” Jackson yells back, his hand jabbing at where the Moonlight Madness bobs on the water. “He’s been sneaking up and talking on the radio all night to some girl. Probably _that_ one. He’s the reason they’re here, and he’s the reason they’re getting all the crab, not us!”

“Dude, how do you even know what I’m doing at night? And I’m not!” Stiles remembers to protest at the end, realizing what he’s said and how damning it is. A flush rises to his cheeks as he feels the shift in how his father holds onto him, a tension sliding in.

“Have you been radioing them while you’re in the cockpit at night, Stiles?”

He knows that mild voice and in the past it would’ve meant grounding. Which isn’t exactly possible on the boat, but Stiles has the feeling that he’s in deep shit. “Sometimes,” he admits, because he’s a terrible liar. “I’m not hurting anything. It’s just me and Erica talking.”

“What about your _girlfriend_?” Jackson sneers. “Does Allison Argent know you’re flirting with another woman behind her back? Wouldn’t want to get that famous Argent temper started. Who knows what she’s capable of.”

“Jackson!” That’s not his dad’s voice, that is purely Captain Stilinski of the Spark, furious with his deck hands, and Stiles shrinks to hear it. He’s gratified to see Jackson take a step back as well, leaning into Danny when he can’t go any further. “Danny, take Jackson below and fix him up. Stiles, go up into the cockpit and wait and do not touch that radio.”

As soon as Stiles is released he heads up, just wanting to get away. He hears Scott behind him, and Finstock telling him not to follow. He’s pretty sure he knows how his dad will handle things—parenting and captaining are similar sometimes—and he isn’t far from wrong. He sits there for a solid half hour before he starts to get bored, and starts to pick at the bandage on his hand.

He unwraps the bandage slowly, trying to flatten out his hand. The stripe across the back is raised and red, the skin around it warm to the touch. It isn’t the stitches or the butterfly bandages that are the problem, but the whole cut that hurts. It’s healing, but slowly, and Stiles is thankful that at least there’s no puss. He probably should tell someone about it, maybe take some antibiotics or something, but it isn’t really _that_ bad and things like that should be saved in case something worse happens.

As soon as he hears footsteps coming up, he quickly rewraps his hand. He’s sitting on the stool, swaying slightly side to side, when his dad comes in.

“Stiles.” Dad sits heavily in his chair, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Have you been taking your Adderall?”

“Every day, all the right times, like clockwork,” Stiles replies. “This is not an ADHD thing. It’s a Jackson being an asshole thing, that’s all. So yeah, I saw Erica and I waved, and I stopped before throwing out the hook. But if he hadn’t been all over me, I wouldn’t have almost hit him, because he’s the ass who got in my way. And seriously, if you see someone waving, don’t you wave back? And what is it with that boat anyway?”

“You tell me.” Dad gives him a look. “It sounds like you’re talking to them all the time.”

“Erica’s got a boyfriend, so it’s not that.” Stiles doesn’t think Dad really believes Jackson, but he figures he should put that out on the table, just in case. “But she’s cool. We’ve just been… keeping each other sane. I need some time away from Jackson so we don’t kill each other, and she needs someone to help her stay awake. That’s it. It’s not like we’re giving away secrets, like oh, _where to catch crab_.”

Dad doesn’t even look guilty about that. He just watches him until Stiles starts to fidget, unable to stay still under that gaze. “What?” he has to ask. “You can’t just send me to my room and ground me. We’re about to move out to wherever you decided our new spot is going to be. I need to do my work.”

“I need my full crew, yes,” Dad says slowly. “But I think I’ve got an idea that might work better. Because you’re right; you do need some time away from Jackson.”

He turns to the radio and in a moment Stiles hears a voice crackle over the line. It has to be Laura—the same one who hung up on Stiles before. “Hale here,” she says, voice light but somehow no nonsense at the same time. “Looks like you’re having a great time there. Ready to pull out?”

“Soon, Laura, but first, I’ve got a proposition for you. Remember that trouble I said I was having?”

“Trouble?” Stiles sputters. “I haven’t been _trouble_. I’ve been a good worker! I know this shit inside and out!”

“Is that him with you right now? Is this a proposition I actually want to hear?” For a moment Stiles thinks he hears laughter, then she is all business again. “I’ve got my own greenhorn worries over here.”

“Well, that’s exactly it.” Dad taps against the table. “I need Stiles to apprentice on a boat that isn’t mine, and doesn’t have Jackson. You need your greenhorn to get some sea legs in a place where he isn’t looking over his shoulder all the time. I can’t pretend it’s going to be welcoming for him over here. Stiles is right: Jackson is an asshole when he wants to be. But he’s less of an asshole to Scott, and I’m guessing he’ll be less of an ass to your Isaac as well.”

“Are you proposing a trade? I don’t know—”

“I’m not actually trouble!” Stiles snaps. “Dad, this is something we’re supposed to be doing together. Father and son! Me learning the ropes and sailing with you every season. You can’t actually be choosing Jackson over me!”

“I’m not choosing Jackson.” He turns his chair to meet Stiles’s gaze. “I’m doing what needs to be done to make you the best crab fisherman I can, and if that means putting you on a different boat where you can get through your greenhorn season without more trouble, then I’ll do that.”

“ _They_ are a greenhorn _boat_!” Stiles protests. “What am I going to learn from them?”

“Plenty. Laura?”

“I’d say I’m getting the raw end of this deal, but Isaac’s a true greenhorn, so I know it’s no great benefit to you, either. We’ll pull in close and you can send him on over. I’ll send your boat back with Isaac in it. Send all his gear and we’ll meet up again back in port when we offload.” Laura hesitates a moment, and when she comes back, Stiles can almost hear the grin in her voice. “Want to put a friendly wager on things?”

Dad laughs. “What are you thinking?”

“We can talk terms later, but the first one to meet quota and get back to port wins. We’ll start with losing crew throws a party for the winners.”

“You do realize that by sending me over there, we’d be working against each other,” Stiles says quietly. “She’d get all my expertise. I mean, I love you, Dad, but I’m going to win a bet.”

“You’re on. Pull in as close as you can get, and let me send you my son.”

Stiles waits for the radio to go silent before speaking. “I can’t believe you’re doing this. My loyalty is here! This is our boat. The Spark. Ours. I’m not part of their crew, and you’re trading me away like a baseball card.”

“I’m doing what’s best, Stiles. Now go pack your things.” His dad levels a look at him. “And help Scott find a way to stow that picture in his own space. I know it’s not yours.”

Stiles swallows roughly. “So, then, you also know Scott’s girlfriend is an Argent?”

“She’s just a girl.” His dad waves at the door. “I’m not worried about Scott’s loyalty, or yours. At the end of the day, you’ll still be my son, and I know you’ll do good work for the Hales. So go over there and make me proud.”

#

Stiles has managed to jam his things back into his duffle bag, and he waits at the side of the boat for the lifeboat to be lowered. It’s the only good way of getting across the choppy Bering Sea, and honestly, it’s not his first choice. It’s not even his last choice. He’s pretty sure he’d rather try to sprout wings and fly than get in that thing.

Moonlight Madness is as close as she can get without endangering either boat, and this time Stiles can see Erica clearly against the rail. She waves and points to the broad, dark-skinned man standing next to her, and Stiles waves back and nods. That must be Boyd. Laura is easy to spot as the only other woman on the boat, talking to a taller young man, his hood pushed back on his slicker. When he glances over, the first thing Stiles can think is big brown eyes, kind of like Scott’s, wide and a bit like a deer in the headlights. He hears Jackson snicker, and hey, Stiles is leaving, so why not? He swings one arm wide, fist knocking Jackson in the ribs. “Be good,” he snaps. “You being an asshole lost us two days of fishing. If you’d been able to _try_ to work with me, we’d be moving to new grounds, not sending me off on another boat and getting you a new greenhorn.”

“One greenhorn’s as bad as another,” Jackson says with a shrug. “Maybe this one will know how to take a little teasing without throwing a punch. You’re a disappointment to your father and he’s getting rid of you, Stilinski. We all know what’s going on, even if you can’t face it. See you back at port.”

“Stiles!” Dad is already on his way down to the lifeboat. When he reaches it, he holds up his hands and Stiles grits his teeth before sending the duffle to him. A small sigh of relief when its caught safely. While Stiles does have his bullet in his pocket for emergency pills, he doesn’t relish the idea of his meds and clothes washing away when he’s going to be on the sea for days yet.

“Dude.” Scott touches his shoulder, and when Stiles turns, they pull each other into a quick back-thumping hug.

“Don’t let Jackson get to you,” Stiles cautions.

“He won’t.” Scott glances across at the other boat. “Know anything about the dude they’re sending over?”

“He’s probably less of a fuckup than I am.” Stiles shrugs. “Not much, no. Erica mostly said he’s kind of sweet, and a little overwhelmed by it all. So show him the ropes and don’t let Jackson eat him alive, okay?”

“Okay.”

The climb down is rough, the rope swinging slightly against the side of the boat. Stiles drops the last few feet and flails before letting himself fall onto the floor of the lifeboat. He manages to get himself back up and grabs an oar and helps paddle.

It’s not fun, and it’s not something he ever wants to repeat, feeling like he’s being tossed around like a lone raisin in a bowl of leftover milk when the cereal’s gone. He reaches out for the rope dangling from the Moonlight Madness and quickly lashes the lifeboat to it so his dad is safe, then he hooks his bag over his shoulder and climbs up.

He may be scrawny and not have a chest anything like Danny, but he’s strong and wiry. This strength is why he spent the summer at the gym. He knew he was going to need it when he went to sea.

Hands reach out as he gets to the top and drag him over as he stumbles on the wet deck. He manages to get himself upright and shove the hood of his slicker back, sticking one hand out at the same time. “Laura. Hi. I’m Stiles.”

She pats him on the back. “Let’s get Isaac back across safely. There’ll be time for introductions after.”

Stiles barely gets to meet Isaac before he’s going over the side and down to his dad like some kind of replacement son. He doesn’t want to admit he’s nervous about the lifeboat crossing that sea again, but he is, and Stiles leans out over the edge to watch them row back. Isaac goes up first onto the Spark, and Stiles finally breathes properly when he sees Finstock grip his father’s hand and pull him over the rail to safety.

His eyes close, a faintly sick feeling in his gut because _he_ put his dad in danger today. “Fuck.”

A hand taps his shoulder and Stiles turns into the touch, coming up against Laura’s side as she puts one arm around his shoulder. She’s tall, standing even with him, and seems solid and thankfully warm.

“Crew, this is Stiles Stilinski and you know we’re going to treat him like family. Stiles, this is the crew of the Moonlight Madness. Erica, who you already know, and Boyd.” Laura gestures at the pair and Erica grins at Stiles, blowing him a kiss. “The boat’s mine, and this is Peter, my uncle and my second in command, and that grumpy-face over by the winch is my brother Derek.”

Stiles nods at them in turn, making mental notes about Peter being somewhat creepy (he can’t see it, not yet, but he trusts Erica’s instincts). But it’s Derek that makes him stop and stare. He can barely see the face, hidden inside the bright yellow hood of his slicker, but he recognizes the jawline. He knows that scruff of a not-beard, and the line of the well-built body. He’s pretty sure he remembers it really well, and his gut goes hot then cold at the realization.

Oh, fuck. 

 _Exactly_.

He opens his mouth to say something, but honestly, what do you say when you’re suddenly dumped on the boat of the guy you fucked three times last summer? Maybe _hi,_ and _nice to meet you_? Stiles is pretty sure there is absolutely no etiquette guide for this, so he closes his mouth with a snap and elects to go with a smile and nod.

“Don’t mind Derek, he’s always an ass.” Erica grabs onto Stiles and pulls him with her. “I’ll give you the quick tour, then you can take some time to stow your things and rest. We’re moving out to new ground.”

“I don’t think he can be as much of an ass as Jackson,” Stiles says dryly, trying not to look at Derek but kind of wanting to see if Derek is looking at him.

“From what you’ve said, I don’t think anyone can. Danny sounded like a sweetie though, and was that Scott you were talking to before you went over the rail?”

“Telling him to take care of your Isaac, yeah.” Stiles nods, and lets himself be pulled along. Erica is like a whirlwind of friendly, but he likes it, and he’s used to it after their late night talks.

Anything’s better than the glare he catches on his last glance at Derek.

#

As soon as Stiles is alone in the cabin for the guys, he peels off his slicker and tosses it on a hook, then peels off his survival suit. He’s digging through the duffle for a fresh (well, _fresh-ish_ , nothing’s really fresh by this point) shirt when he sees the shadow. He twists to look over his shoulder; Derek’s standing in the small doorway.

“This would probably be less awkward if we’d bothered to exchange names last time we met,” Stiles says, keeping his tone light. He sticks his hand out, “Stiles Stilinski. You might remember me as _more, more please_ or perhaps _oh, f—_ ” His words are cut off when Derek grabs his shoulder, pushing him back. Stiles hits the wall with a thud and he groans. “Look, you might want to get started again, but this really isn’t the time or the place…”

“Shut up.” Derek glares at him, too close for comfort and not close enough to mean something more entertaining. Stiles kind of hates himself for where his mind keeps trying to go while Derek is busy growling at him. “That’s the last time you’re going to talk about it. We’re working here and you are not going to upset the balance or endanger my crew.”

“Your crew?” Stiles raises one eyebrow and tries not to think about the part where Derek’s hands are on his still-naked chest and they’re warm and well… right, not thinking about it. “Laura said she’s captain, and that Peter’s her second. How are they _your_ crew?”

“This crew is a _family_.” Derek leans closer, his breath hot on Stiles’s cheek. “I’ve heard what a screwup you are and I don’t care who thinks this is a good idea, because I don’t. Not until you prove yourself out on that deck and you show me that you’re not just a useless greenhorn.”

“What are you going to do, trade me off to _another_ boat? Maybe we’ll run into Boulon Argenté,” Stiles suggests snidely. “Just toss me overboard to the Argents and I’ll be out of your hair. Although that might just piss my dad off, but hey, you’ll be rid of me just like you got rid of Isaac.”

Derek shakes Stiles, knocking the wind out of him with another shove against the wall. “We didn’t get rid of Isaac, you idiot,” he snarls. “We had to give him up so we wouldn’t leave your crew shorthanded when Laura said she’d take you on.”

Stiles rolls his eyes; he knows bluster when he sees it. “Oh? And what about how Isaac was fucking up over here? You traded one fuckup for another, admit it.”

“He was learning.”

“Well so am I!” Stiles pushes his hands between them, shoving out against Derek’s arms and breaking his hold. He takes two quick steps forward, getting in Derek’s face and pushing back. “I’m learning and I know more than Isaac did. I know more about crab fishing than any single one of you on this boat. I grew up here, and I’ve been waiting to get out onto the Bering Sea my whole life. I didn’t just come up from California on a lark and find some guy who’d be willing to help out so I didn’t die. I’m not out here to ride the coattails of anyone else. I’m here to work, and I’m here to fish, and I’m here to get ready to take over my boat someday so Dad can retire.”

There’s a cough and a laugh, and Stiles looks over Derek’s shoulder to spot Erica standing in the doorway. She presses one hand to her mouth as if she can twist the smile away, but it escapes anyway. “When you two are done flirting, Laura wants Stiles up in the cockpit. Derek, Peter’s looking for you to talk about some changes he has for when we put the pots out next time.”

Erica takes a step back, then pauses. “Oh and Stiles, you might want to get dressed. It’s a bit nipply out.”

Stiles crosses his arms over his chest—his far too thin chest with currently pointed nipples, yes, thanks—and feels the heat rise under his skin. “Right. I’ll do that. As soon as some asshole stops giving me trouble.”

“Don’t mind him, he’s all bark and no bite.” Erica grins and winks. “I should know, I’ve tried to get him to bite and he’s never done it, not once.”

“Erica.” Derek’s voice is low and dangerous. “Go tell Peter I’ll be right up.”

“Stop bugging our new greenhorn,” Erica tells him. She leans in to kiss Derek’s cheek, and Stiles can hear the whisper that she isn’t really trying to hide. “I like him. He’s funny, and kind of sweet, and if you snarl at him too much I bet he _does_ bite, and you really don’t want to piss Laura off, do you?” She pats Derek on the back and Stiles swears Derek growls as she leaves.

Stiles deliberately turns away, yanking both clean pants and a shirt from his duffle. He strips quickly, tossing the wet things over a chair and not caring that Derek’s still standing right there, watching him as he yanks the dry clothes on.

“For someone who doesn’t want to talk about it, you sure are hanging around a lot,” Stiles points out.

“Fix it,” Derek tells him, one finger jabbing him in the chest. “We’re not flirting, and we never—” His voice trails off, one hand raised in the air in a motion that Stiles supposes translates to _fucked_. “Not one word. We’re not even friends.”

“Course we aren’t.” Stiles raises both hands. “I’m the greenhorn, I’m here to fish, and as soon as we make quota I’m out of your hair.”

Which is a pity, because honestly, they were _good_ fucks. There was a reason he’d gone back to the club after his hookup to find the guy again. No names, no strings, nothing to make things difficult. Just a great time getting off together. Stiles had been hoping to find him again when he got back, but he supposes that won’t happen now.

Derek leaves him alone to stow his things, and Stiles sits for a minute to gather himself together afterwards. Then he throws on his slicker and steps into the role of a fresh greenhorn, and reminds himself that that’s all he is.

They may say this boat is family, but Stiles can tell that he’s an interloper. He just hopes they meet quota quickly so he can get back to his real family, and out of Derek Hale’s way.

#

“I know.”

“What?” Stiles stops just inside the cockpit, staring at Laura. “You know… what?”

She glances up from the charts she has spread over the table. “About you and Derek. When he saw who you were, he told me what happened last summer. You know he had no idea who you were at the time, right?”

Stiles is reeling from the way this conversation has begun. “Would it have mattered?” He reaches out for a stool and pulls it up next to Laura, dropping onto it. He can’t help the way he reaches out to touch the charts, fingers grazing over the path she has mapped out.

“If he’d known you were the Stilinski kid, it would definitely have made a difference,” Laura says firmly. “Your dad would have something to say about it, and so would my mom if she got her hands on him now. Me, I just care about what goes on while you’re here on the boat. We have a no distraction rule, which means whatever happened between the two of you doesn’t matter now.”

Stiles would try to explain that it was just sex, but saying that to the dude’s _sister_ seems awkward. Besides, there’s something going on here that he’s still missing, and he wonders if Laura will be any more forthcoming than his dad. “Why would your mom care that it was me?”

Laura’s lips purse, amused. “Because she remembers changing your diapers, Stiles. She was close with your mom.”

“What?” Stiles is up off the stool, several steps away before he catches himself. “She was close with… you guys already knew my dad? My mom?”

“We’re from Beacon Hills, Stiles,” Laura says gently. “I thought you knew that.”

“California, yeah. Home…” Because in some strange world, it is still home, even though he’s been in Alaska so long he can’t remember it. “I didn’t know that. Dad didn’t say. Erica didn’t say either.”

Laura pats the stool and motions for Stiles to join her. “I remember your mom,” she says quietly. “I was twelve when she died. My older sister babysat for you sometimes, which you probably don’t remember, but I’ve got pictures of you when you had this huge gap between your baby teeth. We kept in touch with your dad some, and when we thought about coming out here, we contacted him.” She turns the charts slightly, tracing the route with her finger. “He helped us. And he talks a lot about you. He’s proud, you know.”

Stiles snorts. “I know. But he’s also pissed as all hell because of Jackson. It’s not my fault we can’t live on board together.”

“You’re going to have to sort it out before opilio season, unless you’re planning to change boats permanently.”

“I think Derek would kill me if I took Isaac’s place permanently,” Stiles says dryly. “It’s all my fault you had to give him up.”

“It’s about Isaac, too,” Laura admits. “It’s not just the exchange for you. Isaac’s been struggling. He’s a gentle kid, and Derek gets on his nerves. Sometimes when Derek snaps, Isaac just cringes. They get along really well when there’s no stress—Isaac lives with us at home—but as soon as things get tough, it’s like Derek’s going to eat him alive. And well, then there’s Peter.”

“Peter?” Stiles looks at the books, and his fingers itch. “Can I look at your logs? Are you keeping track of where all the other boats are?”

“I’ve been in touch with everyone,” Laura says, nodding at the books. Stiles opens them as soon as she gives the silent okay, going through them avidly. “Even the Argents, and yes, I know, your dad warned us about them. We decided a long time ago to make our own decisions where they’re concerned. But the best way to deal with an enemy is to keep them off-kilter and not let them know they’re an enemy. I wouldn’t trust Gerard as far as I could throw him,” she admits. “But I won’t let _him_ know that.”

“Why are you telling me all this?” Stiles looks up from the books, blinking. “You don’t know me at all. Technically, I’m a greenhorn, no matter how much I protest the label. Personally, this conversation is the best thing that’s happened to me so far this season, but I’m betting you have other people you’d rather have up here. Who are more qualified to be up here, or want to be here and think I’m taking their place.”

“Peter is my second,” Laura tells him. “He’s also my uncle, and he’s been fishing since I was a baby. He’s good at it, and he’s usually on my dad’s boat. We learned from them, and Peter’s the one who said he’d back us coming out here, even with two women on board which everyone else told us is insane. He’s creepy as fuck sometimes, but that’s just him. You can trust him. He’s just… got his own way of looking at things.”

Stiles blinks and files that away. “Okay. Go on.”

“Derek’s my baby brother, which means he’s exactly one year younger than me and I still treat him like he’s a kid just to keep him humble. He’s grumpy, and growly, and he’s had… a rough few years.” Laura’s expression softens. “I’d trust him with my life, and he’s the one who’s been over these charts with me. He’s not angry because getting you meant giving up Isaac. He’s angry because you’re up here, and we’re going to go over the charts, and you’re going to give me _your_ opinions because you’ve been listening to your dad talk about this forever. He’s angry because you have knowledge that I need, and while we’ve been fishing since we were teens, we’ve never been on the Bering Sea before and it’s different, and you know more about it than we do.”

“So you… borrowed me on purpose?” This is sounding better than the exile Stiles was taking it as.

“Sort of. I knew I wasn’t actually getting a raw deal out of it,” Laura admits. “And neither are you, if you look at it from the outside, Stiles. You’re going to learn more when you’re not working with your dad. Everything you already know you learned from him. Maybe it’s time you learn for yourself now.”

She has a point, he supposes. He sets the log books aside and slides the stool back to the table, leaning in to look at the charts. He has ideas about the path she has planned, and she grins as soon as he starts talking, fluid gestures sketching out his ideas in the air just above the paper.

It’s funny just how much Stiles feels at home in this moment. Maybe he’ll fit in here after all, if he can just avoid Derek.

#

Stiles spends as much time talking charts and planning with Laura as he can, and avoiding Derek in the rest of the time. It’s impossible to avoid him completely; they have to work together on the deck, preparing the pots. But if they’re working, then they’re not talking, or otherwise interacting, and he can deal with that.

And he likes the work. This crew works together like they’ve known each other forever, not like a bunch of greenhorns who need an attitude adjustment. Peter’s style is completely different from Finstock’s frenetic yelling, and despite the grouchiness and fond ribbing, it becomes quickly obvious that they all _like_ each other. Stiles can see the traces of Boyd and Erica’s relationship when he brushes by her and she gives him a bright smile, but they behave in a completely professional manner.

Stiles learns quickly to jump when Peter says jump, and he spends a good amount of time scrambling on pots, checking knots, and learning exactly how the rhythm of this particular boat works. It occurs to him that Laura’s right—he does need to learn from someone other than his dad, because there’s more than one way of doing things. This boat is laid out different, has slightly different tools, a different flow to how it all fits together. The basic concept is the same: find a spot, put out the pots, bring in the pots, stow the crab. But there are things that make his mind stutter step over them.

When he asks, some of them come from fishing off the coast of California, which interests Stiles. “We have cod,” he points out. “It’s something good to do between seasons, if you want to go out for opilio but need some money in between. You’ve got the boat, and I’m betting you’ve got to pay it off.”

Derek scowls and Erica nods. “Definitely,” she says. “We don’t have as much information on the cod fishing, and we’ll need to look into it, quota, best grounds, all that, but we’re probably interested.”

“Are you planning on going back down to where it’s warm?” Stiles doesn’t have any kind of ulterior motive for asking, he’s just curious. At least that’s what he tells himself. “Or are you thinking about moving up here year round?” A small shrug as he offers, “Loads of folks live somewhere else, and just come up here for the season. For all I know, they could be accountants when they’re not on board the boats.”

“Peter will go home,” Erica tells him. “He’s got family. Isaac will go wherever Laura and Derek go, and Boyd and I haven’t really talked about it. We’re trying to survive this, first.”

They’re unwrapping pots while they talk, throwing each one overboard and taking care not to let the ropes wrap around their feet. Stiles can see the experience in how they move, all compact motion designed to fit within the confines of the boat. They even seem to know what each of Derek’s growls means, responding to his wordless orders.

It’s a good crew, and in a way, Stiles envies them. He wishes things ran this smoothly on the Spark.

“You should stay,” he says. “At least for a little while. Scott and I can show you guys around, and you can remind Laura to get set up for fishing cod, too. It’s better than going back and forth. And you guys run smooth.”

“We have plenty of experience,” Erica reminds him. “Just not on the Bering Sea. It’s different, but not insanely different. Besides, your dad helped, and Kate gave us a big rundown on how everything works a few years ago when Derek apprenticed on the Boulon Argenté.”

“Derek what?” Stiles stops, bait in hand, held loose in his long fingers as he glances at Derek. “Three years ago? When Kate… she…” He halts, not sure how to put any of it into words and trying to reconcile it with the hookup he had that summer with the same man. He blinks twice and just stands there.

“Pot!”

Erica grabs the collar of his slicker and yanks him back just as a pot swings wildly before Boyd and Peter manage to catch it and get it over the rail where it belongs. Stiles’s heart is racing from the adrenalin and the realization that he almost fucked up even worse than before, all because he was thinking about Derek Hale fucking Kate Argent.

 _This_ is why he told Scott never to get involved with anyone right before a trip. It didn’t even _mean_ anything, and it’s driving Stiles crazy.

Stiles drags in a slow breath, letting the cold air fill his lungs. His legs are like jelly and he leans slightly against Erica. “Sorry,” he finally manages to say.

“Is he okay?” Boyd yells over.

Stiles gives him a thumbs up, and a moment later the routine begins again as the baited pots are sent out.

Erica raises her voice. “Hey, Derek! Three years ago, that was Kate Argent you…” Her voice trails off at the low sound, absolutely wordless and furious and cold, that reverberates across the deck. “Right, not a topic of conversation.”

She turns to Stiles. “I wouldn’t mention Kate if I were you.”

“She fucked a guy over three summers ago,” Stiles says quietly. “Someone who was looking for a boat of his own. She fucked him, and she messed with his head, and rumor has it she tried to set his car on fire. She’s a nutcase, Erica.”

Her lips purse. “Well, yeah. Derek was the guy.”

Which is exactly what Stiles was thinking, but having it confirmed leaves him not sure how to process it. Or what part of it needs processing. Derek spent a year loyal to the Argents. And Kate Argent tried to fuck with him that badly in the end. And well, she’s Kate and Stiles is Stiles, and he’s pretty sure there’s a big difference between the two, even though they’re both kids of crab captains.

Right. He’s not going to make sense of it now, and he can’t afford to think about it. He lets the routine of filling bait pots take him away from the world.

#

It doesn’t seem to matter which boat he’s on, Stiles doesn’t sleep as well as he wants to. He manages cat naps, when no one else is belowdecks, but when it’s most of the crew in there, quietly snoring, it feels wrong to him. Maybe it’s having shared a room with only Scott for years and these people sound different. Maybe it’s just his skin itching because they are all packed in close and he’s aware of Derek only a bunk away. Or maybe it’s just the tossing of the boat on the rough Bering Sea that gets to him.

He makes his way out onto the deck and leans against the railing, looking out. They’re alone out here (he’s been checking the logs and the radar to make sure that’s true) but he looks anyway. He pretends he can see the Spark in the distance, and he smiles slightly, thinking of Scott and his dad being there.

“So there’s this guy,” he says quietly, because it’s stupid to talk to someone who isn’t even there. But he can pretend that Scott’s standing next to him, that earnest puppy-like expression on his face, nodding solemnly as Stiles speaks. “And I might have mentioned it over the summer, when I wasn’t paying attention to the whole you getting a girlfriend thing. Because I hooked up. I went to the club, and he was fucking hot as hell, and that first time it wasn’t much.”

Stiles picks at a bit of paint on the rail, making a mental note to tell Laura that when it dries out, she needs to touch it up. Probably dinged by a pot hitting it, and that’ll happen again plenty while they’re out, he’s sure.

“That first time… I was stupid,” Stiles admits. “It was just hand jobs but I had no idea who he was, and he didn’t ask who I was, and we were actually in the club bathroom. Someone was pounding on the door screaming about needing to piss while we got off. The thing is… it was good. It was really, really good. Like my hands knew how to touch him or something. Sparks flew, however you want to put it. And no, it wasn’t just that he was my first guy.” Stiles flushes even though Scott’s not there. “Or maybe it was, I don’t know. But I wanted to find out, so I went back again.”

He laughs a little. “We made it out of the club the second time and into his car. A rental. We still didn’t bother with names and it was still hot as hell, and yes, I was safe. We fucked that time, Scott. And maybe that one was a big deal because it was my virginity—at least the penetrative kind of virginity—and I had no idea who he was after that. Except that I wanted to do it again.”

“Do what again?”

Stiles jerks back from the rail, skin tight and hot over his face. “Nothing.” He looks from Derek to the door, then back to Derek again as his brows furrow. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

“Shouldn’t you?” Derek counters. “Last I heard you spend your nights talking to Erica, so excuse me for being surprised that you’re talking to ghosts instead.”

“Scott,” Stiles says.

“What?” Both eyebrows quirk up.

“I’m talking to my friend Scott,” Stiles says again. “Who admittedly isn’t here, but it feels good to talk to him anyway. I’d like to say he’s probably talking to me, too, except he doesn’t feel the need to talk as much as I do. His brain’s more methodical.”

“Less distractable?” Derek asks dryly.

“That was one time.” Stiles looks away, leaning on the rail again. He doesn’t want to talk about it, because Derek and Kate is still not a good combination in his mind. It’s confusing.

There is warmth and weight behind him, the strange feeling of the odd way two slickers feel when they rub close together. It takes a moment before Stiles realizes what is happening, but when he does, Derek is settled against him, body close and tight and warm in the chill air. Stiles’s hands curl around the railing and his head drops forward.

It’s awkward as fuck, the way they are standing, the raincoats in the way of everything. But Stiles is all too aware of the man there with him, and the fact that they seem to be doing _something_ in the worst possible place they could be doing it.

His hood falls back and Derek shoves it aside with one hand, his mouth finding the skin at the base of Stiles’s neck. The kiss is hot, then quickly cold as the air slides over skin, and Stiles shivers under the touch. “What happened to—” His words are swallowed as a hand slides across his mouth, and a wet hushing sound presses against his spine.

 _Oh fuck_.

It’s not like he can really feel anything. It’s just weight, and pressure pushing against him in slow motion, and hands that somehow slide under his jacket, pressing against his jeans. Stiles sways forward into that touch, starting to ache and wanting more.

They definitely shouldn’t be doing this.

They can’t do this. Not here, not when Laura could come out at any moment.

Stiles really, _really_ wants to do this.

A shrill whistle sounds, and they both jump apart. Stiles glances at Derek, who looks up at the cockpit. Derek rolls his eyes. “Someone wants you,” he mutters.

Stiles is going to say something. Something _useful,_ like _fuck we should do more of that_ , but he doesn’t get the chance before Derek stalks away. He can’t go far; these fishing boats are cramped, tight quarters. But it’s obvious that the conversation, such as it was, is over.

He climbs into the cockpit, ducking the wadded up towel that flies at him as soon as he steps in.

“What the hell was that?” Erica laughs as she reaches for Stiles, pulling him in for a backslap sort of hug. “Did I just see my favorite growly crew mate dry humping you against the rail?”

Stiles flushes, because she’s exaggerating. Although he wouldn’t have minded if it were more than what it was. “It wasn’t anything,” he says quietly. He pulls up the stool— _his_ stool, as he’s starting to think of it from his time up here with Laura—and drops onto it. “We hooked up a couple of times last summer, and apparently that’s his way of not talking about it.”

Erica twists her own chair, lightly bumping his knee. “It’s not easy on board, you know. I’ve been sailing with Boyd forever, and when we’re out on the water, we’re crew. We’re lovers at home, but everything out here has to be professional. Which makes it hard, sleeping in separate space, pretending that there’s nothing between us.”

“There _isn’t_ anything between us.” Stiles makes a face. “It was a summer hookup. You know, one of those things at a club where you don’t even bother exchanging names.”

“Derek had anonymous sex?” Erica starts laughing all over again, leaning back in the chair, clapping her hands. “Oh, that is _awesome_. I didn’t think he had it in him. Although that, there,” she gestures at the door and the deck. “That was not going to be anonymous. He’s pretty much well aware who you are now.”

“And sleepwalking, I bet. It wasn’t even really going to be sex. Just… leaning on me.” Stiles shrugs. He really can’t parse what’s going on, and he just wants to do his job and not add to his distractions. “He said we’re not going to talk about it, so there I was, not talking about it to him, and he comes up and starts…” His hands go up in the air, fingers spread, and he shakes his head. “It is _not_ my fault if I get distracted now. He’s the one sending off mixed signals.”

Erica bumps him again, her shoulder leaning into his. Stiles is comfortable enough to let her lean. It’s a strange sort of friendship; after all the time they spent on the radio he feels like they’ve known each other longer than they have. “I just don’t want to fuck up again,” he mutters. “And I almost did today.”

“How’s your hand?” Erica asks.

“Laura made me take some antibiotics when I got here,” he admits. “It’s better now. Sore, but better. What would you do if you were me?”

“Me?” Erica raises both eyebrows. “I’d ignore him. Although he doesn’t like being ignored, so that might backfire. But I’d also avoid being alone with him. No matter what it was during the summer, this isn’t the time or place for it, and Laura will kill you if she catches you doing whatever it was at the rail again.”

Stiles flushes brightly. “Right. I didn’t plan that one.” And he won’t do it again. He has a good relationship with Laura and he doesn’t want to risk that (not to mention his job as a deckhand) just because her brother is ridiculously hot, confusing, and lacking in good communication skills. “Thanks, Erica.”

She grins. “Any time. So, any bets on what’s coming up in those pots?”

Stiles has his favorite spots picked out on the charts, and Erica has hers. They spend the next hour putting sticky notes with bets on the charts where the pots were dropped, and making plans for what the winner will get when they tally up the actual totals. By the time Stiles crawls back down into his bed, Derek isn’t forgotten, but he’s far enough from conscious thought that Stiles is able to lie down in a bed only five feet away from him and actually sleep.

#

When they start bringing up the pots, Stiles cements his spot on the team with his throw, hooking pot after pot with ease. He has a quick motion to get it onto the winch, and no one can argue with it. “If one good thing came out of working with Jackson, this is it,” he admits, because Jackson was a bitch about it.

When the first pot comes up, Stiles spots the crab before it gets over the rail and he shouts. Everyone looks and a cheer goes up as it spills out onto the table. Derek and Erica sift through the crab quickly, tossing the few that are too small back over the edge, and pushing the rest into the holding tank. Peter turns towards the cockpit window and holds up two fingers, then three fingers, and Laura yells out congratulations and to get back to work.

Most of the pots seem to be around thirty crabs, with a few that hit fifty, and one memorable one that holds seventy-four viable crab. A few are small, but overall, this spot is damned good. If it keeps up through the last string, they’ll probably make quota and be able to go back in.

That’s both a good thing and a bad thing in his mind. In the last few days, Stiles and Derek have managed to mostly avoid each other, and they certainly haven’t _talked_. But at the same time, Stiles is pretty sure that once he gets off this boat, he’ll never see Derek again. He might see Erica—she said something about being difficult to get rid of. And he likes Laura. But Derek’s so _good_ at avoiding him that Stiles is sure that ship sailed without him.

Hah. Ship. Boat.

Swing, throw, hook, pull. It’s a constant routine and his mind can wander without being officially distracted. When they’ve got all but one string up, Peter stops him with a hand on his shoulder, and Stiles sets the hook down. Peter climbs up to talk to Laura, and the rest of them are left to their own devices while the boat idles.

“I think we’re going to do it.” It’s been hours of work, but Erica’s still light on her feet, bouncing slightly in the cold air. She rubs her hands together, then blows on them. “We’re almost to quota, and we’ve still got a string to pull, and you _know_ they’re going over numbers so Peter knows when to call halt. Speaking of…” She grins at Stiles. “You were so far off on your guesses. I win.”

“Win what?” Boyd’s voice is a low rumble, amused and fond. “Were you two betting on our success?”

“We haven’t looked at it pot by pot yet,” Stiles points out. “I may have been off overall, but if I nailed just one pot…”

“I’m closer than you, and we agreed that the person who totals the most guesses close to actual numbers wins. One pot isn’t going to save you.”

Stiles looks at Erica, where she’s leaning closer to Boyd than maybe she should be, her cheeks pink and her blond hair wild around her face. He shakes his head. “I’m worried about what you’re going to claim as a prize.” When her tongue peeks out between her teeth, her head tilting in thought, he groans. “And now I’m even more worried. Whatever plot you are hatching in that head of yours, don’t let it come to life yet. Give me a chance to find out for sure that I’ve lost first, okay?”

Boyd slaps him on the back and Stiles rocks with the motion of it, regaining his feet quickly. “Don’t worry,” Boyd assures him. “I’ll try to keep her mostly reasonable.”

“Oh no, Boyd, you’ll _love_ this idea.” Erica leans over to whisper, and Stiles decides that maybe that’s his cue to step away for a bit. Boyd’s low chuckle only makes him sure that this can’t be good. 

Derek’s against the port rail, so Stiles heads starboard, leaning on the rail towards the bow. He looks out at the horizon, the way the sun licks at the ocean while it rises, painting the waves in stripes of red and orange. “Red sky at night, sailor’s delight,” he murmurs under his breath. “Red sky in the morning, sailor’s take warning.” It’s an old wives’ tale, but Stiles has seen it be true more often than not, and his gaze shifts to the sky, taking stock of the gathering clouds. He wonders if Laura’s received any weather warnings, and whether they can pull up the last line quickly enough to get moving and avoid the incoming storm.

His gaze drifts back to the horizon, brows furrowing when he swears he sees something bobbing in the distance. He has to be imagining things, since according to the logs, no boats were out here. _Nothing_ except maybe coast guard should be here, and that’s definitely not the shape of a coast guard ship. That’s a fishing boat, and it’s drifting closer as the storm blows in.

It has to be the Argents. They’re the only ones who’d come in without notice. Stiles is sure of it, but at the same time, they are far enough out that they shouldn’t be a problem.

“Stiles!” Erica gestures for him to join her and Boyd and Derek where they are circled around Peter, getting instructions. Stiles pulls his hood up against the spray of the water and does so, picking up the hook as soon as they are done and searching out the next buoy.

The orange balls dance on the waves, tossed up higher than Stiles likes to see. He still hooks them easily, but pulling the pots from a rapidly angering sea takes all his muscles and energy. Just wrapping the rope around the winch to give Boyd something to pull is hard, and soon enough Stiles aches from head to toe, body wanting to fall limp. He’s had enough, but it’s not over, the deck wet and tilting as he slides away from the rail.

“Steady there.” Peter catches him and braces, keeping his head out of the way so Stiles can still throw but not have to worry about standing still at the same time. It’s awkward and uncomfortable, but Peter’s hands on his hips are sure and Stiles manages to keep up with the pace.

He hears a grunt and realizes that Derek has joined Boyd at the winch; they’re fighting the sea. Erica’s alone at the crab table and struggling to keep up with the pace Stiles and Laura have set. Laura’s rushing them, trying to get it all in and done before the storm is fully on them; he wishes he knew how long they had.

“Go,” he says to Peter. “I’ve got my balance, I’ll be okay, and I won’t go overboard. I promise. Erica needs a hand there.” He gestures with his shoulder, and after a moment’s hesitation and a dark look, Peter goes.

They fall back into the pattern and there are some scary moments when Stiles’s feet slide on the deck, and one where the pot pulls him across and bangs him into he table, his hip aching from the impact. He hears Peter counting out loud from the next to last pot, and he stops Erica at thirty. “Everything else overboard!” Peter calls out, and a cheer goes up.

They’ve met quota. The rest of the crab can go back into the sea for next year.

Pulling up the last pot is a celebration, opening it up to let the crab go back into the water. Boyd slaps Stiles on the back and Erica hugs him, and even Laura comes down to join them for a moment.

Her expression is somber, though, as she informs them, “Get into your survival suits, then batten everything down as quickly as you can. Tie the pots down tight, get the gear under wraps, because if it’s not tied down we’ll probably lose it. We’re going to try to out race this storm and get back into calm waters. I know you’re exhausted, and you probably can barely stand, but we need to get this done. Boyd, go below and get food set up, we’re all going to need it. The rest of you, there’s work to be done.”

Stiles follows her into the cockpit, even when she throws a dark look at him that clearly says he isn’t welcome. He stands there dripping and points out one window to the horizon he’d been staring at before. The boat is a larger blot now, still drifting closer on the waves. “That’s the Argents,” he tells her quietly, even though he can’t possibly see the boat clearly enough to be positive. He feels it in his gut, and that’s good enough for him. “Watch out for them, okay?”

“Go back down, Stiles.” Laura jabs one finger at him, nudging him towards the door. “I need you on that deck. More importantly, _they_ need you on that deck. All hands for safety, got it? I’m going to radio your dad to let him know we’re going in, and make sure he’s all right in the storm. Forget about the Argents, forget about whoever that is. Whoever they are, right now they’re just trying to outrace the storm, same as us. And none of us can afford to screw that up. So go.”

She doesn’t give him a choice, and she’s right, he knows, at least where the equipment is concerned. He goes back down, ready to drive himself to exhaustion while they get everything set for a rough ride back to port.

#

There isn’t actually a calm before the storm, but there is a moment when the seas die down to something resembling vaguely annoyed rather than outright pissed off, when the winds fall back and let Stiles breathe. There is a moment when he can lean against the rail, looking out into the darkness, trying to see the other boat that he knows is out there. His fingers curl around the rail, gripping tightly as Moonlight Madness tosses on a wave and his feet slide on the wet deck.

Even gearsd up properly in his survival suit, it’s dangerous to be out here, and he really ought to go below. They’ve done everything they can at this point to be ready for the storm. Peter’s in the cockpit with Laura so they can spell each other, and everyone else is huddled in one cabin. When Stiles left, Erica was refusing to leave Boyd’s side after they’d finished eating. It’s the first time Stiles has seen her scared, and if he couldn’t see how white her knuckles are while she grips the chair she sits in, he’d have no idea. She hides it well.

His head drops forward and water runs down his back, dripping inside the slicker he wears over the suit. He’s as warm as he can manage, but the suit is bulky and uncomfortable, and sticks to skin that was wet before he put it on. He’s cold, and he’s going to stay that way until the storm is over and the risk is gone, and he can put on dry clothes. At least they’re heading back from his very first trip out.

They came, they found crab, they conquered. Or something like that.

Stiles wishes he could go up and radio Scott and find out how the Spark is doing. They’ll have plenty of time back in port, but he wants to talk _now_. Not that he can talk about the thing that’s bothering him the most. They don’t really talk about that. Well, Scott will talk about girls, and Stiles used to talk about girls. But he doesn’t know how to talk to Scott about _guys_ , so he just… doesn’t (except when Scott isn’t actually there and listening).

A heavy weight settles next to him, leaning into his shoulder, and he glances over to see Derek there. The wind whistles around them, loud enough that it hid the sound of Derek moving across the deck. Stiles smiles slightly, and goes back to looking outwards. He can just barely see the silhouette of the Boulon Argenté. It’s getting tossed as much as Moonlight Madness is, but it’s keeping right on pace with them.

There are days when Stiles wonders if Gerard Argent is some kind of a warlock, from the things he does. Or maybe he made a deal with the devil. He certainly seems to have the devil’s own luck.

Another nudge to his shoulder, and Stiles sees a can in Derek’s hand, held out in offering. “I’m underage, you know,” Stiles reminds him, but he grabs it, takes a gulp of something that isn’t as bad a beer as he was expecting. He twists the can around to actually look at it in the moonlight, and nods at the label before handing it back.

Derek raises it up in silent toast before taking his own gulp.

“We survived,” Stiles says.

“Mm-hm.” Derek offers Stiles another drink, but Stiles waves it off.

“I don’t like drinking out here. When the sea’s like this, I feel like I shouldn’t risk pissing it off even more.”

Derek snorts. “It’s not going to notice if you’re drinking.”

“Oh, you think that now.” He can feel the words in his throat, having to shout over the noise of the boat and the waves. He turns and plants his ass against the rail, feed wide to brace himself so he can throw his hands wide. “She’s an angry sea. We’ve taken the crab, but if she gets the chance, she’ll wreck us and set them all free. Gobble us down.”

“That’s a dismal outlook.” Derek shifts, one hand going to the other side of Stiles’s body to anchor himself, hip pressing against the side of Stiles’s hip. He takes another gulp, then leans that hand against the rail as well. “We’re heading back to Dutch Harbor.”

“Yes, we are indeed going into port in Dutch Harbor.” Stiles tilts his head. “It’s a necessary part of the procedure, getting back there before the crab die in the holding tank. Because we catch _fresh_ crab, but you’d know that, since you’ve been fishing for years. How long?”

“Since I was a teenager.” Derek shrugs. “Maybe ten years?”

Stiles hasn’t really thought about the difference in their ages before this moment. He knows Erica is right around his age, and so is Isaac, and he knows they’d all been fishing for a while. Derek’s older, yes, but the idea that he’s been fishing almost as long as _Dad_ has been going out on the Bering Sea… that bothers Stiles and it makes him feel ridiculously young. He turns his head, looking out to sea. He can’t see the Argent’s ship anymore, but that doesn’t mean it’s not there. “Huh. Maybe I should’ve gone out with you guys years ago, gotten some more practical experience before I attacked the Bering Sea.”

“We would’ve whipped you into shape, greenhorn.” The words come out lower than Stiles expects to hear, Derek’s voice a rumble that goes places in Stiles’s body that really aren’t appropriate right now.

He turns back to find Derek looking at him, far too close for comfort, and Stiles’s gaze flicks past him to the cockpit. “Laura and Peter,” he says.

Derek doesn’t answer, simply moves slightly to press against Stiles, and Stiles can’t help but press back. There’s a magnetism, something about Derek that draws him in. It happened in the club, three damned times, and honestly if they were back on land there would be _nothing_ stopping him. But here, in the middle of a storm that’s getting worse, while on the water, he’s not so sure it’s a—

There’s a _thump_ on the side of the boat, and it tilts, sending Stiles into Derek as they both lose their footing. Stiles shouts, reaching out for the rail with one hand, the other windmilling and trying to grab onto Derek. He sees the pots shift on the boat, the tower lashed together but wobbling as the boat falls back down and is lifted high by another wave.

There’s no way to find his balance again, all he can do is struggle for something to hold onto. He grabs again and finds a rope. Twisting, he shouts to Derek, the end of the rope lashing out, tangling around Derek’s ankle.

Stiles only has a moment to realize what’s happened before the boat _thumps_ loudly again, tilting sharply to starboard, and he tumbles over the edge still holding onto the rope. There’s a shout as Derek slides with him, feet tangled.

He hits the water with an impact that steals the breath from his lungs. It is cold and hard and he barely manages to inhale before he sinks beneath the waves. Stiles scrambles, pushing himself back up, feeling the weight of his slicker drag him down.

The slicker.

He has to get rid of the slicker.

He rips at the fastenings with cold fingers, picking them apart and managing to shrug out of it, pushing it away and letting it float out of sight. His boots are kicked off beneath the water and left to sink. The survival suit is all that’s left, and it’s made to help him float, making this heavy and cold but not dragging him under.

Where’s Derek?

Where’s the boat?

His hair is plastered over his eyes and the rope is nearby. He yanks and feels something yank back, and he dives after it, finding Derek on his third try. It takes him an eternity to undo Derek’s slicker and boots, pushing them away so he can drag Derek to the surface and struggle to keep them there.

“C’mon, Derek.” His teeth chatter as he tries to speak. “Fuck, I need you to be conscious. Don’t be unconscious and don’t you dare be dead because if you’re dead then I’m dead because you know my dad would kill me and I’m pretty sure he’d be in line after everyone else on your boat and honestly, I’m more scared of Laura and Erica than anyone else.” 

Stiles can hear noise in the background, but he doesn’t have time for that, not with the dead weight in his arms, dragging at him. “Derek!” he shouts, slapping cold skin. “Wake up!” He can’t do this right, can’t possibly pump water out and air in, not when they’re both treading water, but he tries it anyway, placing his mouth over Derek’s and pushing his breath inside of him. “Wake up, wake up,” he urges between breaths, and he’s rewarded by flailing arms and a renewed ability to stay above water.

“S’cold.” Derek’s breath shudders, body shivering, and Stiles refuses to let go. They’re both going to freeze to death here, unless someone fishes them out.

The only problem is, the waves are rough, and the Moonlight Madness has been swallowed by the darkness. There’s nothing that even looks like it close by.

This can’t be happening. 

“We need something to stay afloat.” Stiles keeps his voice even, although he knows they’re dying. The Bering Sea is going to swallow them and become their grave.

He’s prepared for everything else except this. And he has no idea what to do.

#

“Cold.”

“We’ve covered that, dude.” Stiles tries to keep his teeth from chattering, but the sharp sound punctuates his words and makes his jaw ache. They are sprawled together on top of a make-shift raft that Stiles doesn’t consciously remember grabbing. It’s wood, or something, and he’s pretty sure it came from Moonlight Madness once upon a time. The edges are broken, and there’s just enough room for him and Derek to lie half on top of each other and cling to the edges.

Now that the storm has passed, it’s easier. The hours of the storm are a blur, and Stiles knows it’s a fucking miracle that he’s even still alive.

He’s pretty sure his dad thinks he’s dead.

If they even know he went down. The only witnesses were the Argents and the Hales, and he doesn’t know if the Argents would say anything. The Hales… he hopes Moonlight Madness is still okay. It bothers him that he couldn’t see the boat, but he won’t say anything about it, not in front of Derek. Who has to be thinking the same things he is. They just… aren’t talking about it.

“It’s the Bering Sea,” Stiles says. “She’s a frigid bitch.”

“I’ve noticed.” Derek grunts, and Stiles fists his hand in Derek’s suit, holding on and getting closer. They are the only warmth out here right now, although they are slightly dryer than they were just an hour ago.

The sun helps.

“Someone’s going to come get us,” Stiles says, and he feels the huff of disbelief from Derek. “No, you don’t get it. The coast guard is out here, and they’ll be trying to find…” He trails off before he says _wreckage_ , but they both know that’s what he means. “Fuck. I don’t even know what happened.”

“Something hit the boat.”

“Or the boat hit something else.” Stiles fights for the memory, but most of it is frozen away, locked inside a frozen mind. He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I just remember noise, and tilting, and the damned rope wrapping around your boots, and don’t you know to shed things when you get in the water?”

“I hit my head.” Derek’s words are slow, and Stiles realizes then that it isn’t just the cold. He shifts, making the raft wobble as he reaches to touch Derek’s scalp. He tries to be gentle, but Derek winces anyway, and Stiles’s hand comes away bloody.

“Fuck.”

“Not now, it might dump us back in the water.”

Stiles laughs out loud at Derek’s dry words. “Dude, you still have a sense of humor. In fact, you _have_ a sense of humor. While we are trying not to drown. I’m impressed.”

“I’ve always had a sense of humor.” Derek sounds hurt.

“You growled at me the entire time on that boat,” Stiles informs him. “You mostly sounded like you wanted to kill me.” He closes his eyes, fingers tightening. “You probably do right about now. We wouldn’t be in this mess if it weren’t—”

“Don’t.” A large hand twists awkwardly in the back of Stiles’s suit, dragging him up and forcing him to look at Derek as he speaks. “You didn’t cause the storm,” Derek says. “And we were both on deck. If we hadn’t been, we might’ve gone down before we even knew what was happening.”

“Going down usually has a much better connotation,” Stiles sulks.

“So does _blow_ , but after that wind, I’m not so sure I want to think about it,” Derek counters.

Stiles can hear Erica in his mind, laughing at them flirting. Which they are, he thinks. They are baking, freezing—maybe frozen already—and their minds are starting to wander, and they are _flirting_. It’s a distraction. A way not to think about the death that is surely coming.

“What was the other boat?” Derek asks.

Stiles blinks. “The other boat?”

“It came in quick, right before everything went sideways,” Derek says. “It was practically on top of us.”

How had Stiles missed that? Oh, right… he had Derek practically on top of _him_ at the moment. He wasn’t exactly thinking about the Boulon Argenté. “The Argents, I think. Gerard Argent can be a bit… insane.”

“I’ve met his daughter.” Derek goes silent, and Stiles wonders if this is a good time to keep him talking, or if that topic will only make things worse. He doesn’t get the chance to make up his mind before Derek continues. “She set my car on fire.”

“That’s… cracked.”

“Completely. But her brother didn’t seem so bad. Chris.” Derek goes silent, and when Stiles looks at him, he’s pale. His skin is slightly warm, a bit red, but beneath that his lips are light and almost bloodless.

“Don’t go to sleep, dude.” Stiles slaps his cheek lightly. “We’re staying awake here, on concussion watch. No comas allowed. You already scared the crap out of me in the water.”

“I sink like a rock.” His tone is lighter now, a little sing-song. “Always have. I don’t swim well.”

“And you _fish_?” Not swimming seems like a major omission to Stiles. Swimming is critical when you live on the water.

He feels Derek shrug. “I don’t normally fall into stormy waters. And I’ve survived so far.”

“We’re fixing that when we get back,” Stiles tells him. If they get back. If Derek’s even still speaking to him after this, when he’s had time to think and has a non-concussed brain to think with.

They both go silent. Stiles knows this could be it, but he also knows that if they want to have a chance, they need to stay conscious. He licks parched lips, trying to find something to talk about.

Sex.

No, not appropriate, not right now.

Fishing.

Hah. No.

Not the Argents, not Scott, not any people he can think of easily that they both know in common.

No, wait.

“My mom,” he manages to say. “I barely remember her, but Laura says you knew her. Knew us, when I was little. Before she died. Do you remember her?” He feels Derek’s nod, and he can’t help the pained note in his voice when he asks, “Tell me about her?”

Stiles closes his eyes, letting the words wash over him as Derek does just that. It’s not much, but it’s something to hold onto as they drift.

#

Stiles flails into consciousness when he is placed onto a stretcher on the deck of a boat. His hand strikes someone, and he holds on, blinking at the bright lights shining down on them. “Derek.” His voice is a hoarse rasp, barely working, and he can’t seem to stop shivering. They put his hand down and wrap straps around it, buckling him onto the stretcher. “Where’s Derek?”

They don’t say anything, but one of them points up and Stiles realizes that the strange noise is the sound of a chopper hovering overhead. He can see a line dangling from it, something being lifted up, wrapped in shining silver.

It looks vaguely alien, and Stiles can’t quite wrap his head around what’s going on.

They start to tuck blankets that crinkle around him, too hot for his body to handle and he cries out.

“Sedative,” someone snaps, and Stiles feels the pinch in his upper arm. He is too cold, too hot, too _much_ , and he still doesn’t know what’s going on.

“Derek,” he says as firmly as he can, but the sound stretches out as if he has been slowed down.

“We’ll get you on the copter with him in just a moment,” someone says, and he can relax now. If they’re putting him on a copter, he’s alive.

They’re both alive.

Which is good, because he’s starting to wonder if he’s dead.

“Toes.” Because he can’t feel them, and he wants to make sure no one forgets to bring them along.

“We’re going to get you fixed up.”

The words sound odd in his mind, bouncing around like crashing waves. Fixed up. _Fixed_ , which means he must be broken. They must be broken.

He should ask if the _boat_ is broken. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

Stiles barely notices the passage of time until his stretcher starts to lift into the air. After the gentle sway of the water, flight is cold and airy, strangely violent the way it twists him around. He tries to cling to consciousness, but he can’t help it—he has a choice of madness or letting go, and he chooses to let his mind fall.

#

He hears his father’s voice first.

“…Could be days still.”

“Is it a coma?”

Scott, too. Stiles wants to open his eyes, but his lids feel heavy and his throat hurts. He opens his mouth, wanting to talk, but he coughs, choking. Fingers flail wide, and his eyes open closing again quickly against the brightness as he twists against the feel of _something_ in his throat.

“Stiles, stay still.” Quick words, hands pressed against his shoulders on either side while Scott yells for his mom. 

He lapses back into darkness again for a time. When Stiles finally swims free of it again, there are fingers tangled with his, holding on tight. He blinks into a dimly lit room, and his father smiles at him.

“You needed some help breathing there for a while, son. I’m glad to see you back.”

“Hurts.” He means to say something more, but that’s the best word for all of it. His throat hurts, his hand hurts, his toes hurt, his entire body aches as if he’s been thrown into the dryer and spun around for hours. He’d say that, but he can’t seem to manage to make his voice work.

Dad offers him a straw, putting it between his lips. “Small sips,” he cautions, and Stiles wants to tell him not to worry because that’s about all he can manage.

He wonders how long he’s been getting his meals through a needle in his arm. He’d shudder at the thought, but that would take more energy than he has right now.

At least he’s warm.

Wait.

“Derek?” He manages to get his other hand wrapped around the rail of his bed, pushes himself up.

“He’s fine.”

Dad doesn’t look him in the eye, and Stiles doesn’t believe him. It’s not like Dad would lie about something important, but at the same time, he’d leave out the details. Fine just means alive, he suspects. It could still mean a coma, a missing limb. It could mean anything.

“Am I fine?” Stiles manages to ask.

The small sad smile as his dad nods is an answer of sorts. Derek’s about as fine as Stiles, which is actually not very fine at all.

The next time he manages to wake up, Laura is sitting in the room. She’s not far from him, her arms crossed, jaw set and eyes red around the edges. He blinks several time to clear his vision and make sure he’s really seeing that before he says, “You’ve been crying.” The words come more easily now, his throat less raw, and he realizes that his chest doesn’t ache as much.

He’s healing.

It makes him wonder how long he spends asleep. How much he’s missing.

She unfolds herself and grabs the cup of ice water, placing the straw at his lips and he drinks gratefully. He swallows and when she doesn’t pull it away, he drinks again. “You’re going to start eating today,” she says. “They took out the sugar solution. All that’s left in your IV is for hydration and meds.”

“I’d ask why I don’t have to pee, but I really don’t want to know the answer to that,” Stiles says. Apparently his sense of humor didn’t drown after all.

“Derek doesn’t like the catheter either,” she tells him, and the smile twists into a fond smirk when he relaxes. “Derek’s okay. He’s… it was rough. You were in worse shape from the cold—apparently the fact that he pickled himself somewhat before going out to talk to you helped him handle that part—but the head injury made things rough for a while. He’s coming back to being his usual grouchy self now, though.”

“He drank before coming out on deck?” Stiles shakes his head and immediately regrets the motion. “He’s an idiot.”

“He’s my baby brother,” she says softly. “He has his weaknesses, and I’m just going to assume you’re one of them.”

Stiles has no idea what to say to that, his skin flushing rose. “You didn’t happen to say anything to my dad, did you?” Because that’s a conversation he’s not ready for in so many ways.

“I didn’t…” Laura lets the words trail off. “But your dad may have drawn some conclusions. It’s up to you what you confirm, but folks have been talking and the rumors are flying. Most of your crew’s been here along with mine. In close quarters. Getting to know each other.”

There’s a rap on the door, and it nudges open. Laura is pushed aside so that Erica can squeeze in between them, throwing her arms around Stiles’s neck and squeezing.

“I said one at a—” Mrs. McCall sighs from the doorway. “Stiles, they’ve all been waiting for you to be coherent for more than five minutes. If you get tired, you sleep, understand me? Miss Hale, I’ll need you to…”

“I understand.” Laura stands, dropping one hand on Erica’s shoulder. “You get five minutes, then you let him rest and you give someone else the chance when he’s awake again.”

“Got it.” Erica kisses his cheek and squeezes his hand, and Stiles holds onto her like an anchor. He’s not fully awake, not any more, but he floats while she talks and it’s blissfully familiar to hear her voice. She has a wickedly dead on imitation of Jackson, a long treatise of why she thinks Lydia can do better (or perhaps how she can teach Lydia how to properly train Jackson not to be an ass). “And Allison,” she muses. “She doesn’t seem so bad. I don’t think Scott would be making it through without her to hold onto.”

She talks until he drifts so far that her words are no more than noise. He feels her lips brush his forehead as her voice carries him off into sleep.

#

The first few days pass in a haze of sleep interrupted by brief periods of consciousness that come with visitors. Stiles feels better every time he wakes, but he’s still weak. He’s overjoyed when one time he wakes up and Mrs. McCall shoos everyone out of the room and gets rid of the damned catheter (and he will _never_ live down the fact that his substitute mother is also his nurse and has had to deal with this). She helps him stand on wobbly legs, and curls his fingers around the stand of his IV. With slow steps, they make their way across his room to the bathroom, and he is able to wash his face and pee in peace.

It’s a small advance, but it feels like bliss.

It’s also the first time he’s seen anything below his waist, and he’s shocked by the condition of his feet. He winces, and looks at Mrs. McCall questioningly.

“You only lost one toe,” she says quietly. “You were actually very lucky that that’s all you lost to the cold. You and Derek were both incredibly lucky. If you weren’t prepared because of the storm, if you weren’t wearing the survival suits, if you didn’t find something to use as a raft… it would have been much worse, Stiles.”

Stiles understands that, but it doesn’t change the fact that his left foot looks odd and unbalanced. He sits down hard and tries to parse what happened, tries to make it make sense in his head.

“Dude,” Scott says later, when he and Allison are visiting. “No one would blame you if you don’t want to go out again.”

Stiles skewers him with a look and nods at Allison who thumps Scott’s arm for him. “I’m going back out,” he says firmly. “The sea didn’t win.”

Scott’s mouth opens, but Allison speaks first. “I think that’s good, Stiles. And you know Scott’ll be right there by your side.”

“If I’m on the Spark.”

Scott’s eyes go wide, but Allison just nods. Stiles is surprised how much he likes Allison Argent. She seems clear-headed. Sweet. She’s a good balance for Scott’s occasional naiveté and she has a sharp sense of humor when it comes out. She also balances Lydia well, and seems to add just the right note to their group overall. Stiles could feel it when the entire crew (and significant others) had crowded into his room one night, and even Jackson behaved.

“Why wouldn’t you be on the Spark?” Scott’s brow furrows, bewildered. “I thought you wanted to sail with your dad?”

“I do, and I will, eventually.” Stiles picks at the sheet, trying to figure out how to explain it. It seemed so easy when he was talking with Laura, but now it sounds more like a betrayal. “I learned a lot with the Hales, and I liked working with them. And Dad’s teaching Danny, and I’m not jealous about that anymore. Besides, I thought you liked having Isaac around.”

He doesn’t know what to make of the flush that suffuses Scott’s skin, or the way Allison laughs. “Yeah,” Scott admits. “We worked well together. I wouldn’t mind if he stayed on the crew for cod season.”

They are shooed out when it is time for Stiles to eat and rest. Over the days that follow, different friends are there to help as Stiles gets out of bed and finds his feet again, becoming comfortable with walking. The day that he is freed from the IV, Erica picks him up when she hugs him, and Boyd claps him on the back hard enough to make him almost fall over.

He meets Isaac for real finally, he spends time with Dad, and he eventually finds out from Laura what happened on the night he and Derek went overboard.

“It was the Argents.” She makes a face, and holds up one hand. “No, don’t say _I told you so_ , because you don’t need to. Your dad and I have said it enough.”

“How?” Stiles can’t figure out _what_ actually happened, or why. “I don’t—”

“Scott was radioing Allison periodically, when your dad let him, and telling her what the Spark was doing and then they got to talking about how you’d gone over to Moonlight Madness. Kate was all too interested in what Derek was doing and got the information out of Allison,” Laura explains. “What actually happened was complicated, but in the end, Kate’s a psycho and Gerard was all too happy to help his baby girl out.”

“What about the boat?” Stiles knows something worked out, since everyone’s safe, and in better shape than Derek and himself.

“Needs repairs.” Laura wrinkles her nose. “They caused the waves to spike—fired something into the water that made a small explosion that rocked the boat. She’s damaged, but not badly, and we were able to get back to port. Your dad beat us here, though, so we’re paying for the big party.”

“That hasn’t happened yet?” It’s been weeks; Stiles can’t think that everyone’s waiting around for him.

“How could it, when you and Derek are both still trapped in here?”

That stops Stiles, words disappearing from his mind. Derek’s been here, probably somewhere on the same hall, and they haven’t seen each other. Which means Derek is avoiding him. His mouth closes and he smiles thinly. “Right, of course. Well, I’m getting out soon, and hopefully he will to, so we’ll all be able to celebrate a successful season then.”

“I’ve got the banquet hall already booked.” Laura pats his arm as she stands. “I’ve heard a rumor you’ll be released Friday, so plan to party quietly on Saturday. No alcohol allowed, but you’ll be fine without it.”

Stiles wants to ask if that means Derek has already been released, or maybe he’s getting released, or… it doesn’t really matter, he realizes. If Derek wanted to talk to him, he’d be here. But no, Derek needed to be drunk to talk to him last time, and it’s certainly not an anonymous club, so apparently that’s it, whatever it was or wasn’t, it’s done. Stiles will remember the amazing sex, and be thankful for the help staying alive, but… that’s it.

He nods at Laura and summons a smile. “I’m looking forward to it. I’ll be there with bells on.”

#

Stiles sleeps when he gets home on Friday, burrowing into his pillow and inhaling the familiar scent of his room. It is sheer bliss to be back there, wrapped in his covers, wearing his own clothes. He slides into bed and stays there all afternoon and night, waking with the dawn on Saturday morning. He makes it through half a day before he excuses himself and goes back to bed, needing a nap before the party.

He’s not sure how he’ll get through, until his dad tells him that he’s already got a room booked for Stiles at the hotel, just in case he needs a break. Stiles hates to admit how much he appreciates that.

It turns out that Dad and Laura invited a few other crews to the celebration, and Stiles is surprised how many people want to talk to him, tell him that they’re glad he’s all right, and that the Bering Sea gave him back. The phrasing doesn’t sound odd to him; Stiles isn’t the only one who is pretty sure that the sea is a living breathing organism with a plan for what it will and won’t accept. 

He spots Derek on the other side of the room, surrounded by people, a glass of what looks like water in his hand. Stiles finds a corner and watches.

“He’s not bad.” Danny drops into the seat next to Stiles. “He’s the guy you hooked up with last summer, right?”

“Did you tell my dad that?” Stiles keeps asking everyone, but thankfully the topic hasn’t come up with his dad yet.

Danny gives him a look. “Your dad’s observant enough to figure it out himself. He knows you went to the club because Jackson’s an ass and told him. He knows you were worried about Derek and vice versa. There were a few other things, and your friend Erica talks a lot, and I’d say he’s got the idea of it. I don’t think he’s upset, though. Why, did you think he would be?”

“Derek thought he’d be pissed.” Stiles smiles slightly. “Turns out we knew the Hales before we moved to Alaska. Back when my mom was alive.”

They are interrupted by Erica’s arrival, plopping into Danny’s lap, and he lets her with a laugh while Boyd settles in nearby. Jackson and Lydia join them, and Scott and Allison drag Isaac over. They manage to bring the party to Stiles, in a surprising combination of both his crews. His energy lasts longer than he thought he would, as he eats whatever people happen to bring him so that he doesn’t have to walk around on feet that still ache when he stands too long.

He hopes that heals soon. He worries that maybe he won’t be able to go out for cod, and he refuses to let himself think about what will happen if he can’t do that, and the opilio season right after.

He knows there are options. There are always plenty of options, like college, or a job. But fishing is what he wants to do. It’s a legacy.

Eventually people drift away and Stiles is left on his own again. He leverages himself to his feet and walks carefully. When his dad looks up, he just waves and points at the door; he figures Dad will know that he’s only stepping out, just for a bit. He’ll come back when he’s had a chance to breathe.

There’s a small sitting room down the hall, with leather-covered furniture that’s seen better days, and a big bay window looking out. Stiles leans heavily on the window sill and stares at the night before he lets his eyes close, and his mind drift.

He hears footsteps, but doesn’t look up, figuring they will just pass through.

Until he feels the person behind him, too close for comfort but not so close that they are touching. He straightens slowly and turns, one hand out and pressed against Derek’s chest. “What?”

Derek gestures at the nearby chair. “Do you want to sit?”

Stiles shakes his head. “I’ve been sitting all night. My feet are fine for the moment. You?” It’s a little bit of a lie, but he doesn’t want to move first, and he doesn’t want to make this easy on Derek.

“I’m fine.” Derek’s hand comes up between them as he takes a step back, adding distance. Stiles looks down, not sure what to do with the gesture as Derek’s hand hangs in the air.

“Thank you.” Derek says. “For saving my life.”

Stiles closes his hand slowly around Derek’s. Their hands are so different—Derek’s is broader, stronger maybe, but Stiles has long fingers that tangle around Derek as he squeezes slightly. “Thank you for saving mine,” he responds. His tongue flicks out, licks along his lips, and he looks away. “Look, I know you don’t—“

“I don’t what?”

Stiles lets his mouth close, not sure how to finish what he was going to say. “This is awkward.”

“A bit.” Derek’s tone is dry. He puts one hand on Stiles’s shoulder, turning him and nudging him towards the sofa. “I heard about your foot. Feet. Fingers.” He sits with Stiles, catching one hand in his, separating those long fingers to inspect them. “You look like you’ve healed.”

“My feet still hurt when I’m on them for too long,” Stiles admits. The leather under his butt creaks when he moves. He feels like it should be soft and supple, but it seems cracked and brittle instead. Which is a little like he feels right this second. “I lost a toe.”

“You got lucky.” Derek looks at him. “So did I. That head injury could’ve been worse. I could’ve drowned if you hadn’t dragged me up.”

“And we kept each other warm, I know, we saved each other, it’s okay. Life debt was mutual, and therefore is also canceled.” Stiles cuts through the air with one hand. “You don’t have to worry about me trying to call it in or something.”

“Stiles.” Derek captures his hands, holding onto them both between them. Thumbs press gently against his skin, then slide over it, making Stiles shiver. “Look, I was an ass. Okay? And you were a bit of an ass, too. So let’s start over.”

“Start over?” Stiles isn’t really sure where this is going, or why, but he’ll let Derek continue.

“I’m Derek Hale.” Derek hasn’t let go of Stiles’s hands, and Stiles likes it that way. He also likes the low rumble of Derek’s voice, and the idea of talking to him face to face, which honestly hasn’t happened that much.

“Stiles Stilinski,” he returns with a small smile. “I think I’ve heard a rumor that our parents knew each other.”

“Our mothers were best friends.” Derek hesitates, looking at a point past Stiles’s shoulder, and he resists the urge to turn around and see what Derek’s looking at. He knows it’s nothing, he know it’s just a way of avoiding eye contact. So he twists his hands in Derek’s grip and squeezes slightly, bring that attention back.

“I met this guy over the summer,” Stiles says.

“Oh?” Derek raises his eyebrows. “So did I. He was interesting. Had a sense of humor, and an enthusiasm you wouldn’t believe.”

Enthusiasm? Is that code for doesn’t know what he’s doing but puts all his energy into it? Stiles decides to let it slide. “Well, the dude I met is smoking hot. Hotter than Danny or Jackson, and believe me, that’s saying something.”

“Is that your criteria? How hot a guy is?” 

Stiles flushes. “It was this summer. Hot guy, and even hotter sex honestly. The kind of sex you dream about later when you’re in bed, and you wonder what the guy’s like when he’s not naked. Whether he’d like the same movies, or if he’d make fun of you for reading comics and surfing the net.”

“Sounds like maybe you ought to get to know him better.” Derek’s jaw is tight along the edges, and Stiles would reach up to touch it, not liking that he’s caused that tension, but Derek’s fingers are tight as well, holding his hands still. “I’m staying in Alaska this winter. We can’t go out for cod—we need to repair the Madness—but I figured I might try to find the guy again. See what he’s like out of bed, and out of clubs.”

“Seriously?” Stiles knows they’re supposed to be playing this game, dancing around the subject, but Derek just declared interest and Stiles can’t just ignore that. He pushes up, leveraging himself by pressing their linked hands down, and meets mouth to mouth. The kiss is sloppy and awkward until Derek finally lets go of his hands and holds onto him instead, leaning back until Stiles ends up sprawled across him, kissing his mouth, his jaw, anything he can get his lips on.

For a first real, planned, on-purpose kiss, it’s not half bad. Stiles keeps on with seconds and thirds and fourths, trying to see if it gets better, and yeah, it kind of does.

“I’m not skipping the get to you know you parts, I swear,” he murmurs between kisses. “But I just thought you should know I’m on board with the idea. Completely. Besides, Erica thinks you ought to get laid and be less grouchy.”

Derek snorts, his mouth seeking out the tender spot at the base of Stiles’s throat. “I’m not grouchy.”

“Yes, you are, but we’ll fix that.” Stiles whimpers. “Don’t stop doing that, okay?”

There’s a short sharp bark of laughter from somewhere, and they twist just in time to see Erica backing out of the room, her hands up and head turned away. “Get a room, guys, and not a public one!”

“I have one!” Stiles yells back. “I do, actually,” he tells Derek then. “In this hotel. Just in case I get too tired to be social, or get home. Do you want to…”

“Talk?” Derek kisses him again and words flee in the aftermath of how he tastes. “Let’s go rent a movie. And watch it.”

“And get to know each other.” Stiles gets where this is going, and he’s okay with it. It’s not like they haven’t fucked before, and he’s pretty sure they’ll do it again, preferably when they’re both feeling better and fully up for it. “A movie sounds great to me.”

He figures Erica will tell everyone where they’ve gone, and that’ll work for now. Explanations can wait until later. Tonight belongs to Stiles and Derek.

He stands slowly and offers Derek a hand, letting their fingers curl together. If they lean on each other a bit while walking from the room, that’s perfectly okay with Stiles. _Perfectly._

**Author's Note:**

> Well hey there, and thank you for reading! As is obvious, this fic was based heavily on ideas gleaned from watching a bit too much Deadlist Catch, but I diverged from reality quite a bit in order to fit everything into one storyline and quick crab season. Some things do come from reality (Dutch Harbor, the survival suits, and some of the scenes (like the transfer) are based on actual happenings during the various seasons of DC). Some things I totally made up (the location of a hospital, hotel, and club anywhere helpful). I know that serious injuries are generally airlifted to Anchorage, which is forever away from Dutch Harbor, so I purposefully left the place where everyone lives kind of vague. Fill in the blanks on your own and hopefully you forgive the places where it doesn't quite match reality. I went for story over specifics in this case.


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